I  ADY 

JL/  \Ls  1 


et 


SHE    PASSED    A    HAND    UNDER    HIS    ARM." — 


Opera 
and  Lady  Grasmere 

By 

Albert  Kinross 


Author  of 

"A  Young  Man's  Fancy,"  d  Game  of  Consequences  " 
"The  Fearsome  Island"  etc. 

Illustrated  ky  Archie  Gunn 


New  York 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


Publishers 


Copyright,    /poo, 
By    Frederick    A.    Stokes    Company. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I.— BEFORE  THE  GATES. 

Paet 
CHAPTER    I. 

THE    INSTRUMENT g 

CHAPTER   II. 
MERCERON  ROUSING          .....       21 

CHAPTER   III. 
MERCERON  DANCES  ......       32 

CHAPTER   IV. 
MERCERON  IS  WIDE  AWAKE       ....       43 

CHAPTER  V. 
FIVE  A.M.  AND  "ISABELLA"     .        .        .  54 

CHAPTER  VI. 
"  ISABELLA  " 67 

CHAPTER   VII. 
MERCERON  GOES  TO  BED          ....      84 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
AN   EARL'S   CORONET,  A  YELLOW  DOMINO,  AND 

KNIGHTSBRIDGE          .....       92 

CHAPTER   IX. 
SNOB  TO  THE  RESCUE      .         .         .         .         .     103 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  GATES  OPEN Il8 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THEY  OPEN  WIDER 128 

CHAPTER  XII. 
ARRIVED  .     .     .     .     .     .     ,     .   144 


vi  Contents. 


BOOK    II.— WITHIN. 

CHAPTER    L 
TRANSITION 159 

CHAPTER    II. 
POSTMEN 173 

CHAPTER    III. 
LIFE,   AND    DEATH l86 

CHAPTER    IV. 
A   LITTLE    MUSIC          .  .  .  .  .  .       196 

CHAPTER    V. 
A   LITTLE    MORE    MUSIC 2IO 

CHAPTER     VI. 
STILL    MORE    MUSIC  .....      223 

CHAPTER    VII. 
THE   VICTIMS      .' 234 

CHAPTER    VIII. 
GHOSTS 250 

CHAPTER     IX. 
ERRORS   AND    COMEDY  .....      260 

CHAPTER    X. 
ERRORS   AND   CORRECTIONS          ....      275 

TO-DAY 209 


BOOK   I. 


BEFORE    THE   GATES 


vi  Contents. 


BOOK    II.—  WITHIN. 

AUH 
CHAPTER    L 

TRANSITION         .  ......      159 

CHAPTER    II. 
POSTMEN  .......       173 

CHAPTER    III. 
LIFE,   AND    DEATH       ......       l86 

CHAPTER    IV. 
A   LITTLE    MUSIC          .  .  .  .  .  .       196 

CHAPTER    V. 
A   LITTLE    MORE    MUSIC       .....      2IO 

CHAPTER    VI. 
STILL    MORE    MUSIC  .....      223 

CHAPTER    VII. 
THE   VICTIMS      .'  ......      234 

CHAPTER    VIII. 
GHOSTS      ........      250 

CHAPTER     IX. 
BRRORS   AND    COMEDY  .....      260 

CHAPTER    X. 
ERRORS    AND   CORRECTIONS          ....      275 


TO-DAY 


BOOK    I. 


BEFORE    THE   GATES 


AN   OPERA  AND  LADY  GRASMERE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE       INSTRUMENT. 

TJUTCHINSON  does  not  know.  Not  only 
*  -*-  is  he  blandly  ignorant  of  the  deeps  from 
which  he  extracted  Merceron,  but  his  own 
flagrant  part  in  all  that  was  to  follow  upon  this 
eventful  routing  out,  his  consequent  claim  to 
public  monuments,  is  equally  undreamed  of  by 
this  darkened  Hutchinson.  He  is,  indeed,  aware 
of  the  conditions  and  circumstances  under 
which  Merceron  and  the  Countess  of  Grasmere 
first  became  acquainted — nobody  more  so,  in 

9 


io  An  Opera  6-  Lady  Grasmere. 

fact, — but,  speaking  broadly  and  with  a  dis- 
regard of  irrelevant  detail,  Hutchinson  does 
not  know. 

And  yet  it  is  to  Hutchinson  even  more  than 
to  Harvey  Merceron's  self  that  we  owe  that 
one  masterpiece — the  precursor,  let  us  hope, 
of  many — which  has  redeemed  our  operatic 
composers,  British  music  in  general,  from  the 
charge  of  insignificance.  Before  the  advent  of 
Hutchinson,  British  music  was,  relatively 
speaking,  a  negligible  quantity.  But  now, 
Hutchinson  has  passed,  and  the  ears  of  the 
civilised  world  strain  hopefully  towards  London. 
And  through  it  all,  heedless  and  entirely  deaf 
to  an  art  which  he  may  rightly  be  said  to  have 
created,  Hutchinson,  unconscious  of  his  one 
great  mission, — Hutchinson,  a  being  doomed  to 
perpetual  darkness,  treads  lightly  on  a  Medi- 
terranean quarter-deck,  and  flirts  indifferently 
well  with  the  women  of  various  stations. 


The  Instrument.  n 

Yet,  perhaps,  to  this  hero's  maiden  aunt, 
Miss  Bray,  are  we  even  more  indebted  than 
to  her  favourite  nephew;  for  she  it  was  who 
presented  Hutchinson  with  the  two  stalls  that 
inspired  his  movements.  But  the  claims  of 
Miss  Bray  are  infinitesimal,  unworthy  of 
further  consideration.  For  without  Hutchinson, 
Merceron  had  never  issued  forth  into  that 
July  evening,  Lady  Grasmere  had  gone  a 
different  road,  nor  had  Isabella  known  the 
ways  of  Providence.  Without  Hutchinson, 
Merceron  would  have  lain  idle  at  the  bottom 
of  his  largest  wicker-chair,  and  that  night 
would  have  run  to  waste,  fruitless  as  many  a 
night  preceding. 

Hutchinson  had  lunched  with  Miss  Bray, 
and  had  then  been  turned  loose  upon  a 
sweltering  town  with  those  two  flimsy  stalls 
deep  in  his  breast-pocket.  Covent  Garden  was 
hardly  in  his  line ;  "  and  yet  it  would  be  a  pity 


12  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

to  waste  them,"  he  reflected.  At  this  point  he 
bethought  himself  of  Mercero  .  Merceron 
was  musical ;  he  had  not  seen  him  for  years, 
and  as  boys  they  had  been  "nseparable.  He 
would  go  and  look  up  Merceron ;  Merceron 
would  enjoy  Covent  Garden  and  tell  him 
what  it  was  all  about.  So  Hutchinson 
drifted  from  Kensi  igton  to  Piccadilly,  thence 
to  the  chambers  in  Down  Street  where 
Merceron  had  settled  after  taking  his  degixe 
at  Oxford. 

It  was  like  dragging  a  mole  into  broad  day- 
light, this  starting  of  Merceron,  as  Hutchinson 
— hearty  as  a  south-west  gale — roused  him, 
made  him  shave,  bullied  him  into  his  evening- 
clothes,  and  finally  drove  him  forth  into  the 
open,  where  his  locks  were  shorn  and  arranged 
at  a  convenient  barber's,  Hutchinson  directing. 
As  they  walked,  the  sailor  unfolded  the  details 
of  their  subsequent  programme.  It  hardly 


The  Instrument.  13 

coincided  with  the  popular  conception  of  a  first 
move  towards  a  Renaissance. 

Merceron's  mole-like  tendencies  had  ceased 
with  the  donning  of  his  swallow-tails,  this 
utter  re-construction  of  his  exterior.  True,  he 
blinked  as  they  strolled  off  to  Hutchinson's 
hotel  in  Jermyn  Street ;  but  there  was  no 
inclination  to  burrow.  Merceron's  blinking 
was  a  pleasurable  movement  of  unaccustomed 
eyelids. 

They  dined  expensively  at  the  newest  thing 
in  restaurants  and  drank  champagne,  Hutchin- 
son  leading.  The  sailor's  visits  to  the 
metropolis  were  akin  to  those  of  the  angels; 
and  when  he  came,  he  did  things  in  style,  and 
thought  them  over  when  aboard  his  ship.  And 
Hutchinson  invariably  contrived  that  these 
thoughts  should  be  pleasant  ones.  Opportunity 
denied  him  the  luxury  of  enjoyments  that  stale 
from  habit  or  constant  repetition,  and,  to 


14  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Hutchinson,  London  was  always  new  though 
never  varying. 

To  Merceron  fate  was  even  kinder.  London 
was  brand-new,  and  their  dinner  an  initiation. 
The  string-band  that  discoursed  behind  a  bank 
of  flowers  from  the  gallery  at  the  restaurant's 
further  end  was  as  something  celestial  by  mere 
virtue  of  its  exalted  position.  The  waiters  in 
black  and  gold  with  silk  stockings  were  Gany- 
medes,  and  the  swiftly-served  courses  nectar 
and  ambrosia.  To  Hutchinson,  unafflicted  as 
he  was  with  a  classical  training,  the  service  was 
but  a  luxury,  while  Merceron  deemed  it  one  of 
the  Arts.  Mirrors  and  gilding  surrounded 
them,  and  Merceron  spoke  feelingly  of  the 
"  white  satin  wall-paper." 

Yet  these  were  but  material  aids.  Crowning 
all,  lending  her  mystery  and  subtle  charm  to 
this  opening  foray,  still  further  ravishing  his 
unused  senses,  was  Woman.  The  capital  W 


The  Instrument.  15 

is  Merceron's.  White  hands  toyed  with  the 
dainty  menu-cards,  gems  flashing  on  the  supple 
fingers;  silken  hair  curled,  jewelled, and  aigretted 
over  ivory  brows,  framing  the  face  in  radiant 
gold,  or  dark,  nocturnal,  paling  it  with  a  more 
spiritual  glory;  diamonds  stirred  limpid  on 
snowy  necks,  the  round  arms  shimmered, 
catching  light  and  colour  from  the  clustered 
glow-lamps  and  shaded  candles ;  and  there 
were  bright  eyes,  joyous,  eloquent,  subduing, 
bright  eyes  that  lingered  on  Merceron's.  And 
Merceron,  who  had  eaten  chops  in  a  colourless 
club  these  many  months,  swayed  in  his  seat 
and  deemed  that  life,  though  earnest  and 
leading  to  the  grave,  had  indeed  its  hours  of 
relaxation. 

Merceron  was  leaving  his  rut — was  ap- 
proaching the  high  road.  He  began  to  con- 
template their  after-dinner  movements  with 
some  degree  of  satisfaction.  The  thought  of 


1 6  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

the  opera  no  longer  left  him  unmoved ;  it  was 
a  goal,  an  inevitable  sequel  to  his  present 
beatitude.  He  even  took  the  trouble  to 
discover  what  was  being  played,  and  the  names 
of  the  singers.  They  were  giving  Faust — and 
Faust  had  its  moments !  Harvey,  who  knew 
every  note  of  the  score,  commenced  to  hum. 
Hutchinson,  meanwhile,  was  reminiscent,  and 
told  stories  anent  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave. 
Some  of  these  were  rude.  Merceron  was 
surprised;  he  had  forgotten  the  existence  of 
such  adventure.  His  own  life  had  been  far  too 
engrossing  to  permit  of  such  incidents  as  these. 
So  consistently  had  he  passed  such  action  by, 
that  it  had  altogether  ceased  to  exist.  But 
then  he  had  passed  everything  by,  and  to-night 

% 

— well,  there  was  something  in  this  busy  out- 
door life  after  all ! 

The  string-band  played  a  waltz  of  Strauss, 
and  Merceron   recalled  dances,  and   the   tent 


The  Instrument.  17 

they  had  put  up  in  his  college  quad  in 
"  Commem."  week,  and  the  races.  He  had 
evidently  once  been  as  they,  as  these 
people — it  was  strange !  and  he  turned  on 
the  throng  of  diners,  the  men  and  the 
women;  and  the  women's  exceeding  beauty 
made  him  wonder  whether  it  were  ever 
possible  to  go  back,  to  return  to  the  days 
when  he  lived  their  life  and  they  were  part 
of  his  ? 

"  How  old  do  I  look,  Hutchie  ?  "  he  asked, 
across  the  table. 

"  Twenty-one  this  morning,"  came  jestingly 
from  the  other  side. 

"  No  larking !  "  protested  Merceron,  very 
much  in  earnest. 

"  Young — deuced  young  !  I  don't  want  to 
offend  you  ;  you  should  grow  a  moustache.'' 

"  I  'm  twenty-five." 

"  I    know ;    but  really,  you   don't  look   it,** 


1 8  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

protested  Hutchinson — "comes  of  living  quiet, 
I  suppose." 

"  Hope  so !  " 

They  went  out  on  to  the  balcony  and  lit 
cigars  and  sipped  their  coffee.  Below  ran  the 
river,  and  London  was  rich  with  the  gold  of 
evening.  A  faint  orange  tinged  the  Western 
sky,  and  ahead  over  the  water  the  moon  was 
turning  from  down  to  metal.  A  steamboat 
glided  to  a  pier  below  and  cabs  hurried 
along  the  Embankment.  A  raucous  boy 
shouted  the  evening  papers,  and  through 
green  foliage  they  could  see  the  statue  of 
Robert  Raikes  gazing  placid  over  beds  of 
flowers  towards  Cleopatra's  needle.  A  man 
on  a  seat  was  eating  the  contents  of  a  greasy 
newspaper. 

"  Who  will  ever  put  this  to  music  1 "  said 
Merceron. 

"  Eh  1 "  from  Hutchinson. 


The  Instrument.  19 

The  river  glided,  a  strip  of  burnished  metal 
rolling  East.  Warehouse  and  factory,  wharf 
and  pointed  chimney,  brooded  dark  and  silent 
over  the  further  bank.  The  bridges  were  live 
with  ceaseless  traffic,  and  dotted  with  pressing 
humanity. 

"  My  God,  what  melody  1  "  said  Merceron. 

"  Eh  !  "  said  Hutchinson. 

"If  these  Cockneys  only  knew  what  they 
were  singing ! — give  me  another  match." 

"  Doesn't  it  draw  ?  "  asked  Hutchinson. 

"The  weed's  all  right — it's  these  people," 
and  Merceron  indicated  the  diners  sitting 
behind  the  tall  windows  and  the  hastening 
folk  below. 

"  *  Youth  on  the  prow  and  pleasure  at  the 
helm  ! '"  spouted  Hutchinson.  The  quotation 
was  nautical  and  it  had  stuck. 

"Etty's  picture  is  crude  literalism  —  why 
didn't  he  dine  here  I  " 


2O  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Harvey,  old  boy, 
you're  raving;  that's  because  I  haven't  been 
to  see  you  of  late  !  " 

"  Wish  you  had,"  said  Merceron.  "  This  is 
good !  "  and  he  thought  of  Isabella,  smiled 
over  Sopwith,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and 
letting  the  smoke  run  through  his  nostrils. 
"  This  is  good  !  "  he  repeated. 

"Trust  me  for  knowing  what's  what !  "  said 
Hutchinson.  "When  we  put  in  at  Spezzia — 
by  Jove,  those  Italians  did  do  us  well !  ..." 

And  then  Hutchinson  again  took  the  helm, 
and  narrated  the  secret  history  of  a  visit  of 
the  British  Mediterranean  Squadron  to  a  Latin 
port.  And  Merceron  listened  eagerly,  for 
there  was  Life  in  the  yarn. 

It  was  nearer  nine  than  eight  when  they 
arose  and  walked  across — through  the  Strand, 
past  the  Lyceum,  and  into  the  Opera  House. 

And  in  the  Opera  House  there  was  more  Life. 


CHAPTER     II. 

MERCERON      ROUSING. 

TTUTCHINSON  did  not  know,  was  blind 
*  *  to  Merceron's  elation  as  the  latter  sat 
swelling  in  his  seat — from  the  time  of  their 
arrival,  when  Valentine  occupied  the  centre  of 
the  stage,  down  to  the  fall  of  the  curtain. 
They  had  gone  out  between  the  acts,  upstairs 
to  the  foyer  and  on  to  the  verandah ;  and  even 
here  Merceron's  ardour  was  unabated,  had 
increased  rather  than  slackened.  He  had 
exchanged  whiskies  and  cigarettes  with  perfect 
strangers,  become  the  centre  of  a  group  of 
promiscuous  swallow  -  tails.  Merceron  was 
glowing.  He  radiated  a  warmth,  a  subtle 
magnetism  that  attracted  passers  by,  and  made 

21 


22  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmert. 

pretty  women  wonder  why  he  had  never  taken 
them  down  to  dinner. 

He  had  called  the  opera  "fine,"  accompanied 
by  varying  adverbs,  no  less  than  six  times — 
twice  to  each  entr'acte  —  and  he  had  drawn 
Hutchinson's  attention  with  an  equal  frequency 
to  the  girl  in  front  of  them,  a  refreshingly 
youthful  girl  dressed  in  white,  evidently  in  her 
first  season,  and  possessed  of  the  loveliest  of 
complexions  and  tip-tilted  noses. 

But  outer  and  external  symbols  of  elation 
were  all  these,  the  merest  trifles ;  inside,  the 
commotion  was  volcanic.  The  music  was 
much,  the  music  and  the  singing  had  their 
place  in  Merceron's  intoxication;  but  the  house, 
with  its  triple  row  of  radiant  boxes,  its  low- 
lying  parterre  of  jewelled  colour  that  swept  from 
the  orchestra  to  these  festive  tiers — the  house 
was  more.  To-night  was  the  farewell  appear- 
ance of  a  supreme  soprano,  and  all  London 


aferceron  Rousing.  23 

had  come  in  to  assist  at  this  leave-taking.  Her 
Marguerite  was  indeed  divine,  yet  to  our 
newly  liberated  friend,  little  more  than  an 
accompaniment,  and,  again,  a  pretext  for  the 
coming  together  of  all  those  dazzling  people, 
who  beamed  down  on  the  stage,  like  flowers  out 
of  a  window-box,  or  shone,  row  on  row,  about 
and  before  him. 

"And  to  think  that  I  should  have  lived 
among  all  this  and  never  have  known ! " 
said  Merceron  as  his  two  eyes  roamed. 
He  lay  back  in  his  stall  and  the  per- 
formance had  vanished.  He  was  thinking 
his  own  thoughts  with  the  music  as  aid 
and  furtherer,  hastening  and  heightening  his 
emotions. 

At  the  end  of  each  act  he  applauded 
mechanically,  and  then  drew  Hutchinson 
away  for  a  stroll.  Impressions  followed 
each  other  so  rapidly  as  to  be  a  fever. 


24  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Greetings,  snatches  of  conversation,  tiny 
bursts  of  laughter  came  to  him,  kaleido- 
scopic, Wagnerian,  sustained.  Every  box 
opening  on  these  public  corridors  swelled  the 
movement.  All  London,  from  Royalty  down- 
ward to  the  newest  millionaire,  had  become 
orchestral. 

He  would  have  liked  to  participate,  to  lose 
himself  in  this  universal  melody,  to  be  one 
of  this  celestial  crowd ;  but  he  was  without 
beginning,  without  halting  point,  a  being  tossing 
idly,  impotent,  and  anchorless  over  that  blissful 
sea,  possessing  all,  yet  possessed  of  nothing, — 
desiring  all,  yet  too  hurried  for  any  premeditated 
attack. 

The  suddenness  of  the  incursion  had  destroyed 
his  reflective  powers,  and  he  could  only  gaze 
with  eyes  busily  working,  his  handsome  face 
alight  with  the  concentrated  movement  of  the 
entire  throng. 


Merceron  Rousing.  25 

On  to  the  verandah  they  went,  past  the 
foyer,  with  its  graceful,  recumbent  figures, 
lavish  illumination.  Outside  was  comparative 
calm,  some  respite  from  the  disturbing  aura 
of  splendid  woman -kind  and  blue -veined 
romance,  the  thrills  and  possibilities  of  that 
maison  d' elite.  Here  the  two  men  paused,  and 
Merceron  made  friends.  Now  they  were  back 
in  their  seats  again,  Merceron  still  active ; 
sweeping  the  black  cloud  of  gods  that  clustered 
like  a  swarm  of  flies  upon  the  ceiling,  and 
again  the  tiers  of  boxes  and  the  broad  reach 
of  the  stalls.  And  all  the  while  Hutchinson 
did  not  know. 

The  curtain  fell,  and  the  orchestra  ran  down 
on  the  final  bars.  The  applause  was  tempes- 
tuous and  universal  ;  recall  followed  recall. 
The  conductor,  too,  was  driven  to  share  in 
the  ovation. 

The    house    rose,    and    Merceron    dragged 


26  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

Hutchinson  into  the  vestibule.  A  company  of 
footmen  stood  to  attention  at  the  far  end. 
The  people  streamed  out,  and  down  the  broad 
staircase,  crowding  the  spacious  hall,  and 
jostling  our  two  friends. 

"  Let 's  look  at  them  !  "  said  Merceron. 

They  stood  aside  and  watched. 

"This  is  Life!"  said  Merceron;  "by  Jove 
it  is ! "  and  his  eyes  fed  on  the  gaily-robed 
procession,  and  he  swelled  now  in  this  ante- 
chamber. 

The  silks  and  satins  rustled,  the  gems 
gleamed,  and  the  bright  faces  shone,  radiant 
with  recent  emotion.  The  men  were  all 
athletic,  the  black  and  white  of  their  dress 
distinction's  self.  Nobody  heeded  Merceron, 
bending  over  this  changing  scene,  ardent  as 
a  lover.  Hutchinson's  interest,  though  keen, 
was  but  platonic. 

The  crowd  was  thinner  now;  the  carriages 


Mercer  on  Rousing.  27 

were  picking  up  the  silks  and  satins,  the  men 
in  black  and  white.  Outside,  the  street  was 
gay  with  lamps  and  glossy  horseflesh. 

"  Supper,"  said  Hutchinson ;  "  shall  we  go 
to  the  club  ?  " 

"No;  I  want  more  of  this  —  men  and 
women !"  and  Merceron  took  his  arm,  treading 
on  air  as  they  turned  into  the  Strand.  "  I  've 
wasted  a  lot  of  time,"  he  said — "a  deuce 
of  a  lot !  " 
,"At  it  again?"  said  Hutchinson. 

But  Merceron  was  not  to  be  silenced. 

"  Gounod 's  a  very  great  man,"  he  resumed  ; 
"  but  those  people  were  greater  !  " 

"Don't  see  it,"  came  in  reply. 

"  Gounod  composed  that  opera,  didn't  he  ? — 
worked  on  it  like  a  nigger.  Result :  a  few 
detached  fragments,  selected  moments,  with 
great  gaps  in  between.  What  he  rescued  is 
lovely  enough  ;  but  think  what  remains  ! 


28  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

And  that  audience  was  complete — complete, 
Hutchie,  no  gaps  in  that !  It  didn't  work ; 
it  didn't  smug  itself  bald  ;  it  was  just  its  own 
wonderful  self — and  it  beat  Gounod,  even 
Gounod  !  " 

Hutchinson  yawned. 

"  Didn't  you  feel  the  blood  under  it  all  ? 
Weren't  those  women  fine,  and  those  men  I 
had  drinks  with,  weren't  they  wonderful  ?  Is 
this  the  supper-place  ?  " 

Hutchinson  led,  and  Merceron  followed. 
The  house  had  a  reputation  of  a  sort,  and 
was  living  up.  to  it. 

The  two  men  mixed  lobster  salad  and 
champagne.  Women,  gorgeously  attired  and 
hectic  with  cosmetics,  made  eyes  at  them ; 
and  Merceron  the  glowing,  Merceron  the 
new-born,  who,  for  three  whole  years,  ever 
since  he  had  gone  down  from  Oxford,  had 
shut  himself  away  from  London,  recked  only 


Merceron  Rousing.  29 

of  Isabella  and  Horatio  Sopwith,  who  to-night 
had  once  more  issued  forth  into  the  common 
life,  had  dined  and  operaed,  now  grew  dis- 
couraged. 

Hutchinson  was  indifferent  so  long  as  his 
surroundings  savoured  of  the  metropolis. 
To-morrow  he  rejoined  his  ship. 

"  I  wanted  to  continue,"  said  Merceron. 
"  I  wanted  more  Life — not  this  !  " 

A  leering  demirep  turned  away  from  his 
kindling  eye. 

"  This  is  decay,"  said  Merceron,  "  decay!  " 

The  naval  officer  continued  his  repast. 

"  That 's  what  we  're  striving  to  repair, 
isn't  it  ?  "  he  said,  emptying  a  claw  with  his 
fork. 

But  Merceron  was  in  earnest.  "  How  are 
the  fallen,  mighty ! "  he  moralised,  startling 
Hutchinson,  who  ultimately  laughed. 

"  Jolly     good  !     jolly     good  !      Did     you 


3O  An  Opera  &•  Lady  Grasmere. 

get  that  out  of  a  book  ? "  enquired  the 
sailor. 

"  Er — partly,"  replied  Harvey. 

They  rose  and  left  this  gaudy  Borderland, 
making  for  Merceron's  chambers,  and  puffing 
their  cigars  up  Waterloo  Place  and  Piccadilly. 
There  was  a  big  dance  on  at  one  of  the  houses 
on  their  route. 

"  Supposing  we  went  in  ? "  said  Merceron, 
as  they  watched  a  carriage  empty  before  the 
awning. 

"  We  aren't  asked,  are  we  ?  " 

"  The  more  fun  !  " 

"But  they're  masked." 

"  The  devil  they  are !  "  said  Merceron.  He 
reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then  his  face 
cleared.  "Makes  it  ten  times  better — less 
risk,"  he  concluded. 

"  And  the  clothes  ?  "  asked  Hutchinson. 

"  We  '11  have  to  cab  it  to  the  Haymarket.  or 


Merceron  Rousing.  31 

else — it 's  all  right ;  I  've  the  Oxford  things, 
mine  and  Charlie's.  We  used  'em  in  Romeo" 
alluding  to  a  performance  of  the  Oxford  Univer- 
sity Dramatic  Society,  "and  we'll  use  'em 
to-night.  Come  on  1 "  And  Merceron  hailed 
a  hansom. 


CHAPTER     III. 

MERCERON      DANCES. 

HHHE  two  men  drove  on  to  Down  Street 
-*•  and  bade  the  cabman  wait.  Merceron 
worked  the  lift,  and  in  a  moment  they  were 
upstairs  in  the  bedroom,  and  had  switched 
on  the  electric  light. 

"  Here  they  are ! "  cried  Merceron,  half 
buried  in  an  old  oak  chest.  He  dragged  the 
dominos  out.  A  mask  was  pinned  to  each. 
Hutchinson's  was  bright  red,  and  six  inches 
of  trouser-leg  showed  below ;  the  other  was 
black.  Again  the  lift,  and  they  rejoined  their 
cab. 

The  awning  still  stood  in  front  of  the  big 
house  in  Piccadilly,  and  Merceron  sighed  a 

3* 


Merceron  Dances.  33 

sigh  of  relief.  He  had  half  feared  that  house 
and  awning  might  vanish :  so  much  did  this 
adventure  smack  of  fairy-tale.  Everything, 
however,  was  real,  solidly  tangible. 

They  marched  boldly  into  the  hall,  mounted 
the  broad  staircase  with  its  sprinkling  of 
powdered  footmen  and  late-arriving  guests. 
The  lights  within  dazzled  them. 

"  Good  -  night,"  said  Merceron,  as  they 
emerged  from  the  cloak-room,  "we  hunt 
single."  He  helped  himself  to  a  programme, 
waved  a  hand  to  Hutchinson,  and  disappeared 
in  the  crowded  rooms. 

For  a  moment  the  hubbub  confused  him. 
He  had  participated  in  nothing  festive  these 
last  three  years,  had  shut  himself  away  from 
life  with  his  work.  Now  his  work  was  thrown 
to  the  winds,  and  he  was  going  out  to  meet 
Life  with  wide-open  arms. 

A  voice  gave  him  his  cue,  took  up  the  story 
3 


34  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

of  his  abstinence  —  a  falsetto  voice,  trilling 
pleasantly  behind  a  yellow  domino  and  mask. 

"  Why  so  late  ?  "  it  asked. 

"  I  was  delayed." 

"Vague,"  commented  the  domino. 

"  You  might  have  intervened." 

"I?" 

"  By  coming  earlier." 

"  A  riddle — or  flattery  ?  "  it  queried. 

"  Truth,"  said  Merceron. 

"  You  're  not  dancing  ?  "  asked  the  mask. 

"I  was  waiting — waiting  for  you — and  you 
have  taken  your  time  !  " 

"  Long  ?  ".  she  tossed  back. 

"Three  years." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  the  man's  mad !  " 

"  Only  masked." 

A  silvery  laugh  rippled  behind  the  mask,  a 
flicker  of  amusement  lit  the  dark  eyes,  and 
the  lady  turned. 


Mercer  on  Dances.  35 

"  Another  riddle  ?  "  was  her  parting  shot. 

Merceron  followed  her. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said,  "I  have  kept  all 
these  for  you."  And  he  displayed  his  empty 
programme. 

"  You  have  been  generous,"  laughed  the 
lady. 

"  You  will  be  more  so  ?  " 

"  Impossible  !  "  as  she  took  his  arm. 

They  waltzed — Merceron  like  a  master,  the 
lady  lightly  as  wind-blown  down.  Breath 
failed  them  at  last. 

"The  little  conservatory — shall  we  sit  out  ?  " 
she  asked,  recovering.  She  had  forgotten  her 
falsetto  notes,  the  voice  was  her  own,  and  rich 
with  music. 

Merceron  turned  to  the  right. 

"This  way,"  she  said,  drawing  him  in  the 
opposite  direction.  They  left  the  crowd,  and 
ascended  a  staircase.  "I  know  the  house, 


36  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasn  tr  . 

inside  and  out.  They  only  ask  you  to  their 
big  things,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Are  you  fair  or  dark  ?  "  inquired  Merceron. 
"  You  wear  a  hood." 

"Whichever  you  like,"  she  returned  un- 
abashed. 

"A  chameleon?" 

She  laughed  again. 

Merceron  continued: 

"  We  will  take  your  beauty  for  granted ;  you 
are  taking  mine  ?  " 

The  mask  nodded,  merry-eyed.  He  followed 
her  down  an  empty  corridor.  A  tiny  conserva- 
tory was  at  the  far  end,  and  beyond  was  a 
tinier  balcony,  hidden  away  under  the  stars. 
Piccadilly  ran  into  the  moonlight  on  either 
hand,  the  Green  Park  was  a  sylvan  foreground. 

On  the  balcony  sat  a  stout  domino,  deep  in 
an  arm-chair,  and  snoring  with  wide  -  open 
mouth.  The  lady  laughed  in  its  face,  and  it 


Merceron  Dances. 


awoke,  scared,  showing  a  bald  head  to  the 
stars. 

"  We  are  alone,"  said  the  lady,  as  the  stout 
domino  fled. 

"  You  were  unkind.*' 

"  To  brush  it  away  ?  "  she  asked. 

"It  was  happy,"  remarked  Merceron. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  even  dreaming,"  speculatad 
the  lady. 

"  You  have  hurt  its  feelings." 

"  It  will  make  a  big  supper." 

They  were  seated  now,  and  the  waltz-music, 
stringed,  came  faintly  from  the  rooms  below. 

"  It  is  really  too  warm  for  a  dance  —  it  'a 
absurd  dancing  in  July,"  said  the  lady. 

"  One  should  dance  in  the  open,  like  they 
do  at  flower-shows,  or  in  a  Corot  ?  "  answered 
Merceron. 

"  One  could  dance  at  garden-parties,  if  they 
were  later,"  she  hazarded. 


38  An  Opera  &•  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  You  did  not  lead  me  up  here  to  discuss 
dancing,"  said  Merceron,  severely.  "  You  have 
a  mission — out  with  it !  " 

The  lady  shrunk  back. 

"You  have  never  spoken  to  me  like  that 
before " 

"  Perfectly  correct,"  assented  Merceron. 

"And  even  if  we  are  masked — you  know 
perfectly  well  whom  you  are  speaking  to." 

"  Not  the  foggiest  idea." 

The  lady  laughed  now. 

"  You  pretend  beautifully,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
prefer  your  new  voice  to  the  real  one,"  she 
maliciously  added. 

"  It  shall  be  permanent." 

"  Consider  the  strain  1" 

"  For  your  sake  ?  " 

"That  was  sweet  of  you — take  me  down- 
stairs before  you  get  rude  again." 
"  I  will,  if  you  will  ?" 


Mercer  on  Dances.  39 

"What?" 

"Give  me  another  chance;"  and  Merceron 
extracted  three  waltzes  and  supper  from  the 
yellow  domino.  Then  theyt  returned  to  the 
ball-room. 

"That  is  Lady  May,"  she  whispered.  Her 
gesture  covered  a  slight  pink  domino.  "  Don't 
forget  me,"  and  she  dropped  his  arm. 

"I  shall  go  up  to  the  small  conservatory  if 
you're  not  here,"  returned  Merceron,  and  he 
was  alone. 

So  was  Lady  May.  He  accosted  her  with- 
out further  ado,  taking  full  advantage  of  his 
disguise. 

"  Pink  suits  you,  you  look  well  in  pink,"  he 
began,  critically. 

Silence  and  cold  eyes  behind  a  mask  greeted 
this  raillery. 

"  This  is  our  dance — your  ladyship  has  not 
forgotten  ?  "  urged  Merceron,  undeterred. 


40  An  Opera  6-  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Lady  May,  in  a  voice  dull  and 
quite  uninterested. 

"  You  are  cold  ?  "  suggested  Merceron,  brid- 
ling. 

"  Stifling,  these  things  are  so  ^warm,"  she 
drawled. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?  "  he  asked,  and  was 
rewarded  by  a  stare  so  frigid  that  he  almost 
laughed  aloud.  "We  will  dance?"  He 
offered  her  an  arm  with  a  "  May  I,  Lady 
May  ?  " 

"You  may." 

"  It  must  be  terrible  to  have  a  name  like 
that — always  cropping  up !  "  The  girl's  arro- 
gance annoyed  Merceron.  He  was  resolved 
on  chastening  it. 

"  If  you  don't  like  it,  you  may  go,"  she 
retorted. 

"  I  love  it  so  well,  that  I  would  never  ask  you 
to  change  it." 


Mercer  on  Dances.  41 

A  pink  foot  drummed  the  floor.  Lady  May 
was  angry. 

"  I  am  not  dancing,  will  you  take  me  to  a 
seat  ? "  she  said.  Her  former  drawl  was 
lacking. 

"  Shall  be  delighted,"  answered  Merceron. 
The  rest  of  their  way  was  silence  and  a  bow. 

The  yellow  domino  swung  by  more  than 
once ;  and  Merceron  watched  her,  impatient 
for  a  renewal.  At  last  he  claimed  his  own. 

"  Supper  will  be  on  directly,  let's  get  seats," 
she  said,  as  she  took  his  arm  and  led  the  way 
downstairs. 

A  frantic  domino  in  red,  with  six  inches  of 
trouser-leg  showing  below,  intercepted  them. 
It  was  Hutchinson. 

"I'm  off,"  he  said,  breathless;  "they're 
going  to  unmask^-a  girl  told  me." 

The  yellow  domino  was  listening  with  some 
curiosity. 


42  An  Opera  &  Lady'  Grasmere. 

"Aren't  you  coming,"  continued  Hutchinson, 
"  things  may  get  unpleasant  ?  " 

"I've  only  just  begun  —  besides,  there's 
supper,"  returned  Merceron,  undisturbed. 

"Well,  if  you  won't,"  said  Hutchinson, 
"  ta-ta — I'll  look  you  up  next  leave,"  he  con- 
cluded, and  went  off  to  the  cloak-room. 

Merceron  was  about  to  apologise  to  bis 
partner,  but  she  had  gripped  his  arm  with — 

"  Aren't  you  Captain  Mills  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I'm  aware  of." 

"But  you  dance  alike — you're  exactly  his 
figure." 

"We  probably  go  to  the  same  tailor," 
suggested  Merceron. 

"  Your  voice " 

"  You  prefer  it — shall  we  sit  there  ?  "  and 
he  led  the  way  to  a  vacant  table. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

MERCERON    IS    WIDE    AWAKE. 

'"IT  THY  did  your  friend  leave  in  alarm?" 
•  •  asked  the  yellow  domino,  as  she  and 
Harvey  seated  themselves  at  one  of  the 
supper-tables. 

"  He  feared  exposure." 

"  Not  much  harm  in  it  this  weather — answer 
again  ?  " 

"  They  are  going  to  unmask." 

"  And  he  is  hideous  ?  " 

"  We  came  here  uninvited,"  said  Merceron 
calmly. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  A  liberated  captive." 

"  Then  you  will  need  a  friend." 

43 


44  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  I  have  found  one,"  he  gallantly  replied. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  made  sure  that  you  were 
Captain  Mills  ?  "  said  the  lady. 

"  You  are  disappointed  ?  " 

"  No — not  exactly,"  she  replied. 

The  rooms  were  filling  fast  as  this  conversa- 
tion progressed,  grew  quite  full.  Everybody 
save  Hutchinson  seemed  to  be  present.  The 
pink  domino  stood  in  the  doorway  with  a 
partner ;  another  guest,  stout  and  bald-headed, 
evidently  he  who  had  slumbered  on  the  balcony, 
was  seated,  handling  a  m6nu. 

A  gong  clashed  on  the  hubbub — once — twice. 

"It  is  two  o'clock,  we  must  unmask,"  said 
the  yellow  domino. 

A  hundred  faces  were  exposed,  hoods  were 
falling  back,  the  air  was  full  of  surprises  and 
astonished  laughter,  satisfaction  at  deceits 
successfully  carried  out. 

Merceron  was  gazing  into  a  pair  of  lovely 


Merceron  is  Wide  Awake.  45 

hazel  eyes,  set  below  hair  of  ruddy  auburn. 
The  face,  though  pale,  was  very  beautiful, 
the  half-exposed  neck  a  dazzling-white.  She, 
too,  was  not  displeased  with  her  companion's 
appearance;  his  manner  charmed  her  even 
more. 

Their  hostess,  a  stately  dowager  hung  with 
ancestral  jewels,  sailed  down  the  rooms  to 
greet  her  guests  by  name. 

The  domino  and  Merceron  exchanged  a 
glance,  their  turn  was  imminent.  The  latter, 
unconcerned,  filled  his  companion's  plate  and 
his  own,  drank  to  her  from  a  brimming  wine- 
glass. Then  the  Marchioness  was  on  them. 

"  I  brought  a  young  friend  with  me,"  ex- 
plained the  yellow  domino  with  a  subtle 
twinkle  in  the  hazel  eyes. 

Merceron  bowed,  and  the  Marchioness  was 
charmed.  She  gave  him  two  jewelled  fingers 
and  passed  on. 


An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 


"  Why  did  you  ? "  asked  Merceron,  with 
danger  behind  him. 

"  Appearances  were  against  me,"  laughed 
back  the  yellow  domino ;  then,  throwing  her 
disguise  aside,  she  stood  out  clear,  gowned  in 
amber  satin  with  opals  burning  at  her  throat. 
"  It  was  rather  stuffy,"  she  remarked. 

A  white  hand  stole  out  to  assist  Merceron, 
struggling  with  his  draperies;  its  touch  thrilled 
him. 

He,  too,  was  good  to  look  upon  as  he 
emerged,  tall  and  well  knit,  from  the  inky 
folds  of  his  domino. 

They  supped  like  children,  greedy  and 
helping  each  other  as  the  dishes  passed. 
Music  came  softly  from  the  further  room,  the 
wine  sparkled  ruddy  or  golden,  flashing  back 
the  lights  that  hung  above.  Gallantry  and 
the  full-framed  spirit  of  greater  comedy  leapt 
through  the  fleeting  moment ;  something 


Mercer  on  is  Wide  Awake.  47 

barbaric  and  primeval  snatched  at  the  hearts 
of  these  revellers  feasting  careless  before 
the  dawn,  spurred  on  this  crowd,  frankly 
joyous  with  youth  and  the  rich  blood  of  lives 
untrammelled.  A  pagan  hour  it  was,  and 
beauty  swung  in  the  ascendant ;  the  spirit's 
pale  awakenings  and  wan-eyed  tremors  were  all 
forgot — no  place  for  white-lipped  meditation. 

"  We  dance  no  more  ?  "  said  Merceron  as 
they  rose. 

She  took  his  arm  and  followed  where  he  led. 

"  Let 's  go  up  to  the  little  balcony  again  and 
watch  the  sun  rise  ? "  he  proposed  as  they 
passed  out  together. 

"  An  Alpine  notion,"  she  assented. 

"Alpine  is  barbarous;  they  rouse  you  from 
slumber  to  yawn  at  an  open-eyed  sun." 

"We  will  be  the  sun — let  it  discover  us," 
she  sent  back.  "  I  am  ready ;  "  and  this  time 
Merceron  guided. 


48  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  It  will  be  cold  up  there ;  I  shall  fetch  the 
dominoes."  He  was  with  her  again  in  an 
instant,  and  they  mounted. 

The  conservatory  was  ghastly  with  the 
clashing  of  day  and  artificial  light.  They  left 
it  behind  them  without  unfair  glances  into 
each  other's  face. 

Beyond,  the  balcony  hung  deserted.  Mer- 
ceron  wrapped  his  partner  in  the  silken  folds 
of  the  dominoes,  yellow  on  black.  She  passed 
a  hand  under  his  arm,  and  leant  over  the 
rampart.  Below  rumbled  a  heavy  market 
waggon,  stacked  high  with  green-stuff,  and 
making  a  persistent  line  for  Covent  Garden. 
The  sky  above  was  a  cold  blue,  pale,  with 
sparse  silver  twinklings  of  paler  stars.  The 
air,  though  cool,  was  far  from  chilling. 

A  cart,  ruddy  with  a  regiment  of  geraniums, 
went  by,  and  annunciation  lilies,  white  and 
tender,  mingled  with  the  pots.  More  stacks 


Merceron  is  Wide  Awake.  49 

of  vegetables  followed,  drawn  by  mechanical- 
stepping  horses,  whose  drivers  dozed  torpid  in 
their  seats. 

"  Le  venire  de  Londres — we  are  being  fed," 
said  the  lady  with  a  grimace,  "and  garlanded." 

"  Le  c&ur  de  Londres — where  is  it  ?  "  retorted 
Merceron. 

"  Where  ?  "  she  demurely  echoed. 

"  Here  1 "  His  eyes  were  on  the  sky,  now 
growing  pink  and  sentimental.  Cherubs 
might  have  flopped  over  it  without  causing 
comment.  "  Here  I "  his  eyes  came  down, 
met  hers. 

"  London  has  no  heart,"  she  said. 

"  Six  millions — think  of  them  growing  all  so 
close  together — no  wonder  some  break  I  " 

"  Those  are  down  below " — her  gesture 
covered  the  street — "  but  we — are  here — in  the 
sunlight  1 "  she  rejoined,  triumphant,  challeng- 
ing* glorying  in  her  force  and  beauty.  Her 


5O  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasntere. 

wrap  was  thrown  aside :  it  shivered  to  the 
ground  and  fell  about  her  feet,  and  she  stood 
radiant,  with  parted  lips,  in  the  first  shaft  of 
the  ascending  sun.  Her  enlumined  hair  shone 
like  burnished  bronze. 

"Were  I  artist,  I  would  paint  you  as 
Aurora,"  said  Merceron,  kindling  and  captive. 

"  You  have  imagination." 

"But  no  skill." 

"  More  than  you  imagine." 

"  Both  were  too  much." 

"  Not  in  this  world,"  and  she  looked  round, 
her  eyes  embracing  the  object  of  her  speech. 
This  world  was  a  street  silent  with  untouched 
morning,  the  green  of  a  park  verdant  with 
dew  and  sunshine,  and  two  happy  mortals 
enthroned  on  a  balcony.  "  Not  in  this  world," 
she  repeated. 

"No,  not  too  much — no  equipment  were 
sufficing  here  I"  He,  too,  was  in  Eden  or 


Mercer  on  is  Wide  Awake.  51 

Paradise  or  Elysium.  He  seized  his  houri's 
hand.  She  withdrew  it. 

"  Piccadilly  will  be  crowded  at  noon,"  she 
observed.  He  looked  down  upon  the  street. 
Her  words  had  filled  it  with  surging  traffic  and 
myriad  pedestrians.  The  dawn  had  passed, 
and  zenith  midday  was  pulsing  full  and 
vehement  .  .  .  yet  below  ran  but  a  road- 
way, empty  save  for  the  rare  passing  of  a 
Covent  Garden  waggon !  His  eyes  swept  from 
below,  to  her  and  back  again.  Silence — every- 
where was  silence ;  broken  at  last,  as  a  crowd 
of  busy  men  appeared,  armed  with  gigantic 
hose-pipes.  The  two  revellers  looked  on,  full 
of  interest.  Piccadilly  was  receiving  its  morning 
bath. 

On  the  balcony  now  stood  but  a  man  and  a 
woman.  Poetry  had  left  them;  yet  there  is 
virtue  in  good  prose. 

"  I  am  dreadfully  tired,"  said  the  lady* 


52  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  down  ?  "  asked  Merceron, 
reluctant. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  murmured.  Her  arm 
lay  heavy  in  his,  yet  the  burden  was  as  a 
feather.  Neither  was  greatly  inclined  to  change 
the  present  for  recreant  motion. 

"  We  will  continue — when  ?  "  urged  Mer- 
ceron. 

She  met  his  questioning  eyes,  tenderly  yet 
drooping. 

"  I  may  call— this  afternoon  ?  " 

She  smiled,  soft,  languid  as  a  child  weary 
with  too  much  play.  His  heart  leaped,  exulted, 
flaming  yet  solicitous.  She  was  adorable;  he 
yearned  madly  to  carry  her  down  the  inter- 
vening stairs,  her  arms  heavy  on  his  neck. 

"  This  afternoon,"  he  repeated.    Such  words ! 

She  shook  her  head ;  but  her  eyes  were 
kinder.  "  This  afternoon  1  "  The  staircase 
lav  before  them. 


Merceron  is  Wide  Awake.  53 

Below,  the  company  was  thinning  and  good- 
nights  flew  here  and  there.  The  lady  was 
herself  again,  erect,  serene  as  though  but  new 
arrived.  She  exchanged  farewells,  and  Mer- 
ceron waited.  He  was  in  the  hall  when  she 
came  down,  cloaked  from  head  to  foot,  calm, 
self-possessed — a  guest  departing.  Many  eyes 
were  on  them,  admiring,  envious.  Merceron 
assisted  her  to  her  carriage — an  earl's  coronet 
was  on  the  panel.  A  hand  lay  lightly  on  his, 
the  shadow  of  a  hand's  pressure.  She  had  not 
forgotten. 

"  Au  revoir,"  said  Merceron. 


CHAPTER    V. 

FIVE   A.M.   AND   "ISABELLA." 

TT  was  five  o'clock  of  a  summer's  morning, 
•*•  and  Merceron,  his  domino  over  his  arm, 
was  in  the  street,  watching  the  lady's  carriage 
as  it  disappeared,  rolling  towards  Knights- 
bridge. 

Despite  the  hour,  no  vestige  of  fatigue  did 
he  display;  rather  was  he  elate,  a  being 
treading  on  air,  ascending  rainbows  light- 
footed  as  a  god,  with  song  and  melody  on 
his  lips,  volatile  within  him.  For  Hope, 
Expectation,  new-sprung  and  virginal,  were 
his  companions — as  never  in  this  life. 

The  way  to  his  rooms  was  no  long  one. 
He  was  at  his  door  before  he  was  well  aware 

14 


Five  a.m.  and  "Isabella"  55 

of  any  exercise ;  and  there  stood  the  old, 
familiar  abode,  in  semi-darkness,  with  the 
sunshine  struggling  behind  drawn  blinds, 
unchanged,  as  he  had  always  known  it — but 
he,  how  altered,  how  foreign  to  this  trim 
sobriety  ! 

Merceron  let  in  the  light  and  the  fresh  air, 
lit  a  pipe,  mixed  a  brimming  tumbler  of  whisky 
and  potass,  threw  off  his  coat  and  put  on  an  old 
college  blazer.  Then  he  sat  down  with  feet  on 
the  fender,  and  let  the  night's  work  steal  over 
his  thoughts. 

This  review  was  all-sufficing.  Over  every 
phase  of  his  adventure  he  dwelt,  lover-like, 
ardent,  and  eager.  His  blood,  long  so  latent, 
so  torpid  and  confined,  was  warmed  to  sweet- 
ness by  the  renewal.  After  all,  what  were  the 
past  years,  spent  .studious  and  apart,  but  an 
apprenticeship  ? — over  now,  behind  him  at 
last.  He  had  served  his  term,  was  free  once 


56  An  Opera  &  Lady  Gr  asm  ere. 

more  and  a  man.  He  was  rich,  with  youth 
and  fortune  equally  untouched  :  he  would  give 
all  to  her,  to  that  life  of  which  she  was  the 
symbol,  the  supremest  manifestation  ;  to  the 
fair,  young  world  wherein  he  had  dwelt 
unknowing  these  many  years. 

Over  this  ground  he  trod,  repeating  and 
repeating,  and  these  thoughts  were  but  the 
sweeter  for  their  repetition.  Now  the  last 
night  came  back  to  him  in  one  continuous 
whole — no  series  of  splendid  moments  like  the 
Faust  he  had  just  witnessed,  but  as  an  opera 
of  Wagner,  a  late  one  ;  richer  even  than  this, 
for  the  world  was  his  stage,  his  opera-house, 
libretto  and  setting  had  ranged  themselves 
spontaneous,  fallen  truly  as  the  rain  of  heaven, 
were  no  studied  effort  of  cunningly-disciplined 
particles.  Back,  over  all  this  ground  he  went, 
lingering  at  the  dinner-table  where  light  had 
first  stolen  in  upon  him,  to  the  fair  women, 


Five  a.m.  and  "  Isabella."  57 

showing  faces  bright  with  anticipation  and 
toying  with  delicate  viands  to  the  sound 
of  music;  then  Hutchinson's  friendly  counte- 
nance and  the  terrace  overlooking  London — 
London  awakening  to  its  evening  release,  its 
myriad  lights  opening  upon  the  dusk  like  rows 
of  enchanted  flowers,  a  festive  London — while 
below  ran  the  river,  slow  moving,  girt  with  the 
tender  greys  of  its  distances,  soft,  trailing 
shadows  that  climbed  into  the  tinted  sky. 
Afterwards,  the  busy  streets  that  led  to  the 
great  Opera  House,  where  some  of  the  world's 
sweetest  singers  had  thrilled  him  with  some  of 
the  world's  sweetest  melody ;  not  him  alone — 
for  he  had  been  but  an  atom,  an  infinitesimal 
part  of  that  vast  audience.  A  part  of  what  ? 
Of  the  very  cream,  of  the  topmost  blossoming, 
of  all  that  London  boasted  !  He  had  formed 
a  part  of  that  magic  coronal,  pre-eminent, 
privileged,  by  right  of  its  beauty,  its  health,  its 


58  An  Opera  6-  Lady  Grasmcre. 

brilliance,  and  fastidious  appetites.  He  had 
been  part  of  this  world ;  he  would  stay  with 
it  now,  always — its  life  was  the  one  Art  1 
From  thence  he  had  descended  to  the  supper- 
place  :  a  passing  through  the  fustian,  the 
shoddy;  a  dip  into  a  stream  deceptively  like 
the  other,  yet  tainted  from  its  very  source, 
unclean  with  an  invisible  pollution.  Away 
from  there  into  his  disguise,  the  music  of 
the  dance,  the  rhythm  of  harmonious  motion, 
the  dramatic  semi-danger  of  his  peculiar 
outrage.  And  yet  this  danger  had  been  but 
illusive — what  company  would  not  have 
welcomed  so  ardent  a  recruit  ?  And  now, 
uppermost  and  chiefest,  throned  amid  all  this 
opulence,  this  pomp  of  splendid  living,  crowning 
his  edifice,  was  a  woman:  the  woman  whose 
hand  had  rested  on  his  arm  as  he  and  she 
stood  looking  down  upon  this  same  London  of 
the  night  before — again  awakening ;  now  to  no 


Five  a.m.  and  "Isabella."  59 

feverish  release,  but  calm,  vestal,  throwing  back 
mist  and  darkness,  and  uprising,  glorious, 
golden,  from  out  the  dawn.  Warm,  living,  this 
woman  stood  once  more  beside  him,  tall  and 
perfect  in  her  rare  proportions,  dark-eyed  and 
with  ruddy  hair,  the  sweep  of  her  full  voice 
encompassing  all  emotion.  He  would  be  with 
her  again,  later,  that  very  day  ! 

His  vehement  thoughts,  rose-tinted  and 
intense  with  all  desires,  coloured  with  the  full 
brush  of  young  anticipation,  now  left  the 
concrete,  the  particular,  wandered  off  towards 
the  general,  the  larger  issues  of  this  chase. 
The  previous  night  was  no  longer  a  chain  of 
incident,  but  a  conquest.  Had  he  not  won  a 
new  and  complete  existence  out  of  that  which, 
but  one  short  day  ago,  had  been  to  him  as  a 
nothingness  ?  Twenty-four  hours  ! — his  whole 
life  lay  in  that  twenty-four  hours  :  the  rest ! — 
the  rest  had  been  work  and  futile  strivings, 


60  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

the  attempted  appeasement  of  a  hunger,  an 
appetite  which  no  life  here  below  could  effectu- 
ally still,  the  service  which  men  call  Art.  Before, 
he  had  faced  the  impossible  and  ultimate 
darkness  ;  now,  but  twenty-four  hours  distant, 
and  he  had  found  the  other  way,  the  one,  the 
right,  the  true  path — a  road  hewn  straight 
through  the  heart  of  Life,  and  bordered  with 
love  and  all  the  graces. 

No  inkling  of  regret  mingled  with  this 
awakening;  his  twenty-five  years  stood  him 
in  good  stead.  Young  enough  he  was  to  smile 
unruffled  over  lost  opportunity ;  old  enough 
to  exult  in  the  youth,  the  measure  of  strong 
years  that  lay  before  him.  His  was  the  golden 
age.  For  a  moment  he  stood  aloof  from 
himself,  recognising  the  wealth  that  was  his 
own.  Vaguely  he  called  to  mind  that  there 
were  men — men  no  older  than  he,  too — who 
were  already  tired,  spoilt,  cynical;  yes,  men 


Five  a.m.  and  "Isabella."  61 


even  of  his  few  years  who  were  prematurely 
weary,  scarce  capable  of  enjoyment.  He  might 
have  been  as  these,  disillusioned,  spiritually 
dyspeptic!  This  verging  Pharisaism  disgusted 
him  ;  he  withdrew  his  attention  to  less  com- 
parative fields,  to  the  present,  the  near  future. 
What  would  these  be  !  What  would  they  not 
be !  A  passage  in  a  play  of  Ibsen's,  John 
Gabriel  Borkman,  came  back  to  him,  struck 
home  with  a  new  force,  a  new  meaning — a 
vision  of  enlightenment.  He  had  hitherto 
been  playing  for  the  dancers ;  henceforth  he 
was  going  to  join  in  the  dance — there  lay  his 
future. 

Merceron  rose,  found  the  book,  the  scene 
that  had  flashed  back,  well-nigh  prophetic. 
He  read  it  aloud,  doubling  the  parts  of 
Borkman  and  Frida  Foldal : 

"  Do  you  like  playing  dance  music  ?  At 
parties,  I  mean  ?  "  he  asked  as  Borkman. 


6a  An  Opera  <$•  Lady  Grasmere. 

"Yes,  when  I  can  get  an  engagement.  I 
can  always  earn  a  little  in  that  way,"  he 
answered  as  Frida. 

"  Is  that  the  principal  thing  in  your  mind  as 
you  sit  playing  for  the  dancers  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  am  generally  thinking  how  hard  it  is 
that  I  mayn't  join  in  the  dance  myself." 

"That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Yes, 
yes,  yes !  That  you  mustn't  join  in  the  dance, 
that 's  the  hardest  thing  of  all.  But  there 's 
one  thing  that  should  make  up  to  you  for  that, 
Frida." 

"  What  is  that,  Mr.  Borkman  ?  " 

"The  knowledge  that  you  have  ten  times 
more  music  in  you  than  all  the  dancers 
together."  And  Merceron  closed  the  volume 
with  a  bang. 

No ;  he  would  no  longer  play  for  the  dancers. 
Money,  he  had  money  in  plenty  1  Fame, 
what  was  fame  to  him ! — to  him,  who  was  going 


Five  a.m.  and  "Isabella."  63 

to  join  in  the  dance;  to  him,  who  had  ten 
times  more  music  in  him  than  all  the  other 
dancers  together !  He  knew  this  last,  was 
certain  of  his  power,  had  felt  it  last  night  as  he 
moved,  a  figure  leading  and  dominant,  among 
strange  crowds.  The  others  recognised  it  too. 
How  else  would  he  have  ventured  so  boldly  to 
the  attack  of  the  lady  in  yellow,  how  else  would 
she  have  received  this  attack  with  such  unmis- 
takable favour?  Even  his  successful  demoli- 
tion of  the  arrogant  Lady  May,  his  trumpery 
triumph  at  the  Opera  bar,  the  promiscuous 
men  whom  he  had  attracted,  magnetised,  stood 
ample  evidence  in  confirmation  of  this  esti- 
mate .  .  .  He  had  ten  times  more  music 
in  him  than  all  the  other  dancers  together,  and 
instead  of  expressing  it  in  written  signs,  he 
would  live  it;  he  himself  would  enjoy  this 
luxuriance,  this  tenfold  capacity — he,  and  he 
only.  There  should  b,e  no  burdensome  division 


64  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

between  Art  and  Life  —  but  Life,  nothing 
but  Life.  And  he  was  to  live  this  Life.  .  .  . 
He  would  make  of  it,  and  would  wear  it  as 
some  strange  power;  a  force,  baffling  and 
compelling,  impalpable  and  subtle,  ever-present 
yet  never  manifest ;  a  secret  religion,  a  com- 
pleted Pantheism,  that  should  make  him 
eminent — elusively  eminent  among  mankind. 

Within  him,  some  small  voice,  a  remnant, 
perhaps,  of  his  former  devotion,  his  old  altruism, 
whispered,  "  Impossible !  "  The  injustice  of 
such  advantage  could  not  be.  "  Impossible !  " 
whispered  the  voice. 

"  Possible,  and  I  will  prove  it ! "  cried 
Merceron.  "  As  for  what  has  been,  as  for  the 
past — there  shall  be  no  past — my  life  began 
to-day !  " 

One  link,  a  something  living  and  articulate 
that  bound  him  to  his  former  state,  remained, 
testifying  to  what  was,  to  what  might  be. 


Five  a.m.  and  "Isabella."  65 


Three  years  had  he  spent  upon  its  forging  ; 
three  years,  complete  and  without  break. 
Isabella,  this  score  with  its  libretto;  Isabella, 
his  first  opera,  that  represented  the  whole  of 
his  doing  and  being  since  he  had  quitted  Oxford ; 
Isabella,  but  newly  finished  and  laid  aside,  must 
burn.  His  apprenticeship  was  over  now;  away 
with  every  shed  and  symbol  of  the  chrysalis 
from  which  he  had  emerged  !  Isabella  belonged 
to  the  past,  was  the  past — away  with  Isabella ! 
Fire  was  the  surest,  the  swiftest  annihilator. 
Here  were  the  matches,  and  over  there  the 
cabinet  where  this  manuscript  opera  lay,  care- 
fullv,  cleanly  piled,  as  he  had  stacked  it  three 
weeks  since,  after  a  last  revision.  The  fire- 
place would  be  a  ready  crematorium.  He  found 
the  key  of  the  cabinet.  All  was  ready  for  this 
burnt  sacrifice,  this  first  offering  to  the  gods 
that  were  to  watch  over  his  new  career.  All 
was  ready — save  only  Isabella.  Before  him 


66  An  Opera,  &  Lady  Grasmert. 

yawned  bare  shelves  and  naked  walls,  an  ironic 
void. 

The  lock  of  the  cabinet  was  smashed, 
evidently  forced  from  the  outside.  The  key  had 
turned  round  and  round.  The  door  hung 
loosely,  and  offered  no  resistance.  It  swung 
wide  open  almost  as  soon  as  he  touched  it. 
The  cabinet  was  quite  empty.  Isabella,  both 
the  score  and  the  libretto,  had  been  stolen. 


CHAPTER     VI. 

"  ISABELLA." 

TTTE  have  just  accompanied  young  Harvey 
•  •  Merceron  through  as  varied  an  enter- 
tainment as  any  that  London  affords  the 
enterprising  bachelor  within  so  short  a  space 
of  time  ;  twelve  hours,  is  not  that  the 
exact  period  which  has  elapsed  between 
Hutchinson's  breezy  entry  and  the  discovery 
of  Isabella's  providential  exit? 

We  have  seen  Merceron  blink,  as  the  sailor 
drove  him  forth  into  the  sunlight;  we  have 
seen  him  shake  off  lethargy  and  inaction,  and 
run  such  riot  as  man  too  seldom  enjoys.  We 
have,  all  of  us,  looked  on  with  envy;  some 
few,  even,  have  had  courage  to  openly  express 


68  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmert. 

approval  of  an  example  so  successfully  and 
consistently  lawless.  And,  at  the  end,  we 
have  followed  the  prodigal  home  and  listened 
with  sceptic  smile  to  his  own  impassioned 
version  of  events  that,  duly  considered,  are  but 
the  commonplaces  of  every-day  experience — 
every-day  experience  properly  footing  it  through 
an  accustomed  world. 

And  now,  having  heard  him  declaim,  our 
smile  relaxes.  Some  of  us,  indeed,  are  wisely 
shaking  prudent  heads,  as  they  watch  this 
youth,  wrapped  in  a  college  blazer,  devise  an 
unlimited  paradise  upon  so  slender  a  founda- 
tion: quite  undeterred  is  he  by  any  thought 
of  Providence;  of  Providence,  that  upright 
merchant,  steadfastly  exacting  a  fair  and  lawful 
price  for  even  the  least  of  his  wares.  No 
such  inevitable  payment  does  young  Harvey 
Merceron  contemplate. 

Instead,  has   he  not  raised  violent   hands, 


"Isabella."  69 

nor  are  his  eyes  lowered  in  humility ;  instead, 
does  he  not  wish  to  burn  his  ships,  leave 
himself  no  refuge  should  his  quest,  his  con- 
jurations, have  proved  futile.  No  lap  wherein 
to  hide  his  face  should  he  return  empty-handed 
does  he  reserve,  not  even  such  solace  as  might 
have  afforded  him  Isabella. 

Let  us  hear  more  of  Isabella;  for  is  she  not 
a  something  vital,  a  strip,  several  strips,  a 
reach,  upon  her  master's  pathway  ?  Were 
not  she  and  Horatio  Sopwith  sole  diversions 
of  the  hermit  Merceron  —  the  Merceron  of 
yesterday  ? 

Six  years  had  passed  since  Harvey  left  his 
school  and  went  up  to  Oxford.  As  a  youth 
he  was  remarkable  for  the  largeness  of  his 
ambitions.  Even  when  newly  arrived  at  the 
University  which  was  to  give  him  his  musical 
dRg*ee,  the  sad  history  of  Isabella  and  Lorenzo 
had  attracted  him  as  a  fitting  subject  for  his 


70  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

first  enterprise.  The  story  contained  all  the 
elements  of  grand  opera,  seemed  manifestly 
designed  to  furnish  a  music-drama  of  the 
highest  order.  He  resolved  upon  attacking 
it  so  soon  as  he  should  be  done  with  examiners, 
as  leisure  and  serious  working  days  lay  before 
him.  Meanwhile,  he  was  content  to  discuss 
his  plans  with  Sopwith.  He  had  sometimes 
hesitated  between  Isabella  and  Francesca  of 
Rimini.  They  were  both  subjects  eminently 
suitable  :  Wagner  would  most  certainly  have 
treated  both  of  them  had  he  not  been  otherwise 
employed;  and  what  was  good  enough  for 
Wagner  was  assuredly  of  sufficient  importance 
to  merit  the  attention  of  that  master's  admiring 
student,  Harvey  Merceron  to  wit.  Sopwith 
had  been  intelligently  sympathetic,  had  listened, 
keenly  interested  in  either  undertaking. 

Sopwith  and  Harvey  were  the  only  men  of 
their  year  reading  for  a  musical  degree  at  their 


"Isabella"  71 

particular  college,  and  thus,  a  common  pro- 
gramme had  thrown  them  together  from  the 
outset.  Later,  they  had  worked  together,  had 
joined  the  same  clubs,  attended  the  same 
lectures,  grinned  at  the  same  tobacconist's 
daughter,  played  the  same  games,  and,  finally, 
had  been  examined  side  by  side  and  had 
received  their  degrees  upon  the  same  morning. 
Sopwith,  a  smart  enough  youth,  with  gifts 
more  receptive  than  imaginative,  was  glad  to 
profit  by  this  constant  intercourse  with  a  man 
of  such  rare  instinctive  faculty  and  innate 
vocation ;  for  he  had  speedily  recognised  in 
Merceron  certain  generous  though  undisci- 
plined forces  which  no  don  or  professional 
teacher  lavished  in  equal  measure.  Harvey 
was  to  Sopwith  a  chronic  source  of  infection ; 
and  he,  for  his  part,  was  pleased  at  having 
found  so  willing  a  listener,  was  gratified  by  the 
other's  implied  acceptance  of  himself  as  leader 


72  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

in  their  joint  undertakings;  admitted,  too, 
Sopwith's  practical  outlook  and  good  sense, 
and  their  value  as  a  corrective  to  his  own 
more  fiery  temperament.  The  two  men,  thus 
admirably  assorted,  were  constantly  together ; 
and,  later  on,  when  they  both  resettled 
themselves  in  London,  this  friendship,  begun 
up  at  the  'Varsity,  prospered  and  grew 
venerable. 

Even  at  their  earliest  meetings  had  Merceron 
and  Sopwith  discussed  the  merits  of  Isabella 
and  Francesca  of  Rimini.  The  themes,  they 
had  agreed,  were  nearly  identical ;  and  M  er- 
ceron,  enlarging  on  this  point,  had  roundly 
asserted  that  "You've  only  got  to  alter  your 
libretto,  and  one  score  would  almost  do  for  the 
pair  of  them — especially  in  the  second  act,  and 
it's  the  second  act  that  takes  the  most  doing," 
he  had  sagely  added.  Harvey,  at  that  time, 
conceived  all  his  operas  in  three  acts,  with  the 


•    "Isabella."  73 

climax,   amorous    for   the   most   part,    in    the 
middle  one. 

"  Both  deal  with  clandestine  love,  clandes- 
tine meetings,  and  violent  death — look  here, 
Sopwith,  you  take  one,  and  I'll  do  the  other  ?  " 
he  had  remarked  upon  another  and  similar 
occasion. 

"  But  mustn't  we  begin  at  the  beginning  ? — 
and  an  opera's  rather  in  the  middle,"  replied 
the  soberer  Sopwith. 

"  The  beginning  is  where  one  begins,  and,  if 
we  begin  in  the  middle,  it's  all  right,"  retorted 
Merceron,  logical  for  once.  "  How  would 
King  Lear  or  The  Cenci  suit  you  ?  "  he  proposed 
after  an  interval. 

"I  think  I'll  get  that  degree  first,  if  you 
don't  mind,"  from  Sopwith. 

This  made  Harvey  laugh. 

On  going  down  from  Oxford  and  moving 
into  the  Down  Street  Chambers,  he  had 


74  ^**  Opera  <§•  L«^_y  Gtasmerc. 

definitely  decided  upon  handling  the  story  of 
the  unfortunate  Isabella.  It  was  simpler  than 
any  of  the  others,  and  the  second  act  gave 
him  a  like  opportunity;  which,  after  all,  was 
the  main  consideration. 

Sopwith,  who  had  taken  an  even  better 
degree  than  Merceron,  set  up  for  himself  in 
one  of  a  deserted-looking  row  of  houses  that 
formed  part  of  a  cul-de-sac  which  bewildered 
the  straggler  into  Bloomsbury.  He  had  but  a 
small  allowance,  just  sufficent  to  manage  upon 
if  carefully  expended,  and  rooms  in  this  loose 
end  of  a  thoroughfare  were  cheap  and  spacious, 
their  tenants  unrestricted. 

Merceron,  thus  safely  installed,  had  at  once 
proceeded  to  shut  himself  up  with  Isabella. 
His  libretto  he  attended  to  in  person ;  he  had 
some  literary  ability,  and  the  notion  of  any 
outsider  interposing  between  himself  and  his 
beloved  work  hardly  appealed  to  him.  Sopwith, 


"Isabella."  75 

he  thought,  would  prove  a  sufficient  check  to 
any  extravagance,  and  was,  besides,  a  familiar 
worker  in  the  same  field. 

Months  passed,  and  Merceron  remained  deep 
in  his  labours,  with  an  occasional  visit  from  his 
brother-musician  or  a  run  down  to  Hertford- 
shire to  see  his  people  for  sole  distractions. 
He  lost  touch  with  his  other  Oxford  friends; 
and  as  the  work  grew,  and  he  became  more 
and  more  immersed,  the  last  social  links,  rites, 
and  observances  were  dropped,  and  Merceron, 
happily  absorbed,  stood  alone  in  London  with 
only  Isabella,  the  near  Park,  and  Sopwith  left 
to  him — the  world  forgetting,  by  the  world 
forgot. 

Sopwith,  who  came  in  regularly  to  compare 
notes  and  see  how  Isabella  was  progressing, 
was  always  a  welcome  visitor.  He  would 
listen  with  an  unfailing  patience  while  Merceron 
ran  over  the  latest  additions  to  the  pile  of 


76  An  Optra  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

manuscript,  or  explained  how  these  results 
had  been  obtained,  or,  as  was  often  the  case, 
had  not  been  obtained.  Sopwith's  constancy 
had  its  reward;  for,  was  not  the  outcome  of 
all  this  eager  experiment  and  labour  entirely 
at  his  service  ?  He  meanwhile,  though  an 
interested  spectator,  was  content  with  a  less 
soaring  ambition,  devoted,  indeed,  a  certain 
portion  of  his  time  and  talents  to  the  com- 
position of  settings  for  the  metrical  effusions 
of  wealthy  amateurs.  Such  patrons  paid  him 
well  for  his  trouble,  and  insisted  that  their 
names  should  appear  in  large  type  on  the 
cover  of  songs,  the  cost  of  whose  publica- 
tion they  also  defrayed.  This  arrangement 
Sopwith  not  only  countenanced,  but  courted 
into  the  bargain.  He  also  went  much  to 
other  people's  houses,  urging  Merceron  to  do 
the  same. 

"  How  do  you  think  you  are  going  to  get 


"Isabella."  77 

Isabella  put  on,  if  you  don't  know  people  ?  " 
Sopwith  would  exclaim  when  Merceron  ignored 
these  precepts.  He  expounded  further,  "It's 
all  interest.  Merit  be  blowed;  you've  got  to 
know  people  first,  you  've  got  to  get  some- 
body influential  to  take  you  up  and  make 
people  talk  about  you.  Look  at  So-and-so 
and  So-and-so,"  and  here  he  would  rattle  off 
half-a-dozen  names  well  known  in  the  musical 
world. 

"But  I'm  not  So-and-so  and  So-and-so," 
Merceron  would  reply  unmoved. 

Sopwith,  however,  only  shook  his  head. 
"  You  've  got  to  get  yourself  talked  about,"  he 
insisted,  "so  that  everybody  knows  who  you 
are,  and  then  when  anybody  wants  any  music 
they  come  to  you,  even  if  they've  never 
heard  a  bar  of  your  work.  They've  heard 
your  name,  and  that's  all  they  want.  In 
England,  people  don't  know  much  about 


78  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

these  things,  and  music  is  just  like  soap  or 
patent  medicine." 

"But  we're  going  to  change  all  that,"  said 
Harvey. 

"  Not  just  now,  old  chap.  And  just  now 
people  are  buying  the  brand  they  see  and  hear 
most  about — and  I  'm  taking  precious  care 
they  hear  a  deal  about  Horatio  Sopwith  ! " 

The  author  of  these  remarks  was  in  so  far 
right,  that  when  Isabella  neared  completion 
Merceron's  was  a  name  unknown,  while  Horatio 
Sopwith's  songs  were  in  evidence  at  all  the 
principal  music-sellers — so  much  so,  that  their 
composer  was  enabled  to  occupy  and  furnish 
a  cosy  flat  situate  in  Bayswater.  Occasionally, 
one  of  these  compositions  would  catch  Mer- 
ceron's eye  as  he  passed  a  shop-window,  and 
once  or  twice  he  had  entered  and  purchased, 
run  rapidly  over  the  setting  and  marvelled  at 
Sopwith's  lack  of  courage.  A  reminiscence, 


"Isabella."  79 

always  a  reminiscence,  some  sort  of  a  borrow- 
ing or  another,  were  these  trifles.  He  had 
chaffed  Sopwith  about  these  variations  on  the 
familiar,  but  the  latter  had  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  he  would  explain. 
"  I  'm  not  independent  like  you  are,  so  I  can't 
afford  to  refuse  the  things;  and  besides,  nobody 
knows  the  difference." 

Merceron  looked  reproval — this  was  indeed 
degeneracy. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  returned  Sopwith,  "  I  can't 
afford  to  waste  time  doing  original  drawing- 
room  songs  and  comic-opera  inlays  for  the 
idiots.  You  wait  till  I  've  a  chance  of  choosing 
my  own  work,  and  then  I'll  astonish  you;  but 

now "  and  the  speaker,  perfectly  dressed  in 

the  latest  of  late  fashions,  correct  even  to  the 
pearl-headed  pins  that  kept  his  necktie  in 
position,  would  proceed  to  deplore  his  lugubrious 


8o  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

circumstances  and  the  straitened  resources 
which  condemned  him  to  such  a  present  state 
of  unworthy  drudgery. 

And  so  through  these  three  years  the  pair 
of  them  had  progressed,  each  in  his  own  way ; 
Merceron  going  deeper  and  ever  deeper  into 
his  work,  discovering  technical  and  tone  secrets 
which  no  Oxford  or  other  don  has  yet  imparted, 
learning  day  for  day  in  that  most  personal  and 
thorough  of  all  universities — Experience.  So 
that  when  first  he  appears  in  these  pages,  with 
Isabella  well  behind  him,  he  might  really  have 
begun  to  compose  something  noways  dis- 
creditable. Doubt  came  to  him  and  fear,  often 
and  often  again,  as  he  went  on  thus  blindly 
with  his  task,  caring  little,  dreaming  little  of  all 
that  lay  beyond ;  but  doubt  and  fear  were 
courageously  swept  aside  or  smiled  over ;  and 
when  Sopwith  paid  his  weekly  call  and  sat 
listening  with  unconcealed  admiration  to  these 


"Isabella."  81 

new  pages,  the  reward  was  sufficing  and 
Merceron  dared  continue. 

Isabella  drew  towards  its  close,  and  now 
Sopwith's  visits  grew  scarcer. 

"The  opera  season  is  on,"  he  explained, 
"  and  I  'm  going  to  make  hay."  He  had  met 
the  impresario,  was  trying  hard  to  arouse  that 
worthy's  interest ;  and  he  mentioned  also  the 
name  of  a  great  lady,  one  who  reigned  supreme 
in  the  musical  world,  and  whom  he  fancied  he 
had  quite  won  over  to  his  side.  His  chance  had 
come  at  last;  he  would  turn  out  no  more 
songs  and  waltzes  and — here  the  pair  of  them 
shuddered — polkas !  Not  only  might  he  engage 
in  something  lofty,  but  he  would  stand  a  fair 
chance  of  getting  his  work  produced,  and  that 
without  delay. 

And  now  the  impresario  figured  constantly 
in  his  conversation,  partnered  by  that  great 
lady  who  was  able  to  move  mountains — 


82  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Sopwith  had  evidently  become  a  shadow 
stalking  this  all-important .  functionary  and  his 
exerciser  from  bed  to  board  and  backwards. 
He  now  spoke  seriously  of  beginning  his 
magnum  opus. 

"Why  don't  you  start  now?"  cried  Harvey, 
delighted  at  the  change,  "now — and  do  take 
one  of  our  subjects,  the  ones  we  used  to  talk 
over  at  Oxford,  Francesca  or  King  Lear  or  The 
Cenci — why  not  Francesca  ?  The  second  act  is 
just  like  mine,  you  know,  and  it  '11  be  such  fun 
to  compare,  and  I  can  help  you  a  bit — you  see, 
I  've  nearly  got  mine  behind  me ! " 

And  then  and  there  it  was  agreed  that 
Sopwith  was  "to  tackle  Francesca." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  finale •  of 
Isabella  was  set  down,  under  these  conditions, 
in  this  utter  quiet.  Upon  it  had  followed  three 
weeks  of  helpless  idling,  during  which  Merceron 
had  tossed  anchorless,  restless  and  yet  without 


"Isabella."  83 

definite  pursuit  or  object,  till  there  arose  that 
hot  July  afternoon  which  saw  Hutchinson  enter 
his  chambers,  drag  him  out  of  doors,  plunge 
with  him  into  that  larger  world  which  he  had 
half  forgotten — to  the  foundering  of  all  his  plans 
and  philosophies. 


CHAPTER   VIL 

MERCERON     GOES     TO     BED. 

1T7E  left  Merceron  staring  blankly  into  the 
•  *  empty  cabinet,  at  its  broken  lock  and 
damaged  door. 

As  the  situation  opened  to  him,  as  he 
realised  that  Isabella  had  escaped  him,  he  burst 
out  laughing.  "  Saved  me  the  trouble,  whoever 
you  are  ! "  he  cried,  throwing  the  box  of 
matches  on  to  a  near  table.  "Saved  me  the 
trouble — dashed  silly  thing  to  steal,  though  1 " 
he  protested. 

Despite  these  unconcerned  exclamations,  the 
thought  of  ringing  up  and  interrogating  his 
man  occurred  to  him  as  he  turned  away,  still 
laughing ;  but  it  was  too  early  in  the  morning 

84 


Merceron  Goes  to  Bed.  85 

for  Hancock  to  be  astir,  and  he  wasn't  "  going 
to  wake  the  beggar ;  hardly  worth  while,  hanged 
if  it  is  1  "  he  repeated  mirthfully,  addressing 
the  violated  piece  of  furniture,  that  still  yawned 
painfully  in  the  background.  Harvey  went 
back  and  closed  its  open  door.  "  Rather  a  pull 
up,  wasn't  it  ?"  said  he;  "quite  the  'hand  of 
Fate '  we  hear  so  much  about !  " 

"  Funny  notion,  though,  coming  up  here  and 
taking  Isabella,  and  leaving  the  other  things," 
he  mused,  resuming  his  seat  before  the  fire- 
place ;  "  I  wonder  what  they  want  it  for  ?  " 

Some  faint  regrets  had  mingled  with  his 
mirth :  for,  after  all,  was  not  Isabella  a  witness 
to  years  of  industry  and  aspiration ;  as  a 
souvenir  alone,  had  merited  preservation  ? 
And  then  he  might  have  shown  her  to  the 
yellow  domino ;  perhaps  she  would  have  been 
interested  .  Bah,  he  was  no  longer  a 

musician,  but  a  man,  merely  a  man !  This 


86  An  Opera  <5-  Lady  Grasmere. 

afternoon  there  would  be  greater  music  than 
any  he  might  ever  compose !  It  was  well  that 
Isabella  had  passed  out  of  his  life ;  she  had  no 
place  in  the  new  existence  that  spread  before 
him.  He  was  going  to  listen  now!  Other  men 
could  spend  their  lives  over  Isabellas;  as  for 
him,  he  was  going  to  sit  in  his  stall  and  enjoy. 
The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  caught  his  eye, 
interrupted  his  reflections.  It  was  close  on 
seven — had  he  not  better  go  to  bed  for  a  few 
hours?  It  would  be  absurd  for  him  to  resume 
in  the  afternoon,  tired-out  and  yawning.  And 
he  must  also  look  in  at  his  tailor's,  for  he  had 
hardly  a  decent  coat  in  his  wardrobe.  Clothes 
had  troubled  him  very  little  of  late. 

Merceron  retired  to  his  bedroom  and  went 
to  sleep.  At  eleven  he  awoke,  feeling  rather 
clammy  and  dissipated.  A  bath  revived  him. 
As  he  dressed,  he  recollected  that  he  had  asked 
Sopwith  to  look  in  the  night  before  and  talk 


Mercer  on  Goes  to  Bed.  87 

Francesco,  over  with  him,  and  that  he  had  gone 
out  with  Hutchinson,  completely  forgetful  of 
this  prior  engagement.  He  was  meditating 
an  apology,  when  a  connection  between 
the  sudden  disappearance  of  Isabella,  and 
Sopwith's  call  appeared  to  him  as  in  some 
measure  possible. 

"  No,  Sopwith  isn't  that  sort !  "  exclaimed 
Merceron,  scouting  the  idea — it  was  too 
unpalatable;  "and,  besides,  he's  pegging  away 
at  one  of  his  own — at  Francesco. ! " 

"And  yet,"  persisted  reason,  "who  else 
would  take  a  pile  of  music ;  and  hardly  anyone 
but  Sopwith  knows  I  've  done  it  ?  I  'd  have 
given  it  to  him  for  the  asking  .  .  .  perhaps  he 
only  .  .  .  M 

Here  Merceron  turned  aside,  deferring 
other  speculations,  hoping  against  hope.  He 
rang,  instead,  for  shaving-water  and  break- 
fast. 


88  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

t 

"By-the-by,  Hancock,"  he  carelessly  in- 
quired, as  the  man  returned,  "  were  you  in  last 
night?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Harvey's  eyes  were  on  his  servant's  facet 
here  surely  was  no  stealer  of  operas — absurd ! 

"  Did  anybody  call  after  I  went  out  ? "  fae 
continued,  selecting  a  razor. 

"A  gentleman,  sir;  he  wouldn't  leave  his 
name  or  any  message.  He  said  he'd  wait  a 
little  as  you  were  out,  sir;  and,  as  he  was  a 
gentleman,  I  showed  him  into  the  sitting- 
room." 

Merceron  was  puzzled,  but  suppressed  his 
interest,  asking  only  in  the  same  indifferent 
tone: 

"  Did  he  stay  long  ?  " 

"  About  half  an  hour,  sir ;  I  thought " 

"  Mr.  Sopwith  didn't  look  in  ?  "  interrupted 
Harvey. 


Mercer  on  Goes  to  Bed.  8g 

"  No,  sir." 

Merceron  was  pleased ;    relieved    as    well. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  closing  the  interview. 

What  was  the  use  of  following  up  the  matter  ? 
As  for  his  mysterious  visitor,  he  would  leave 
him  to  his  defective  conscience,  and  the  critics. 
He  was  glad,  more  than  glad,  that  his  doubts 
regarding  Sopwith  had  been  so  promptly 
dispelled.  A  note  from  that  suspect,  lying 
beside  the  breakfast  things,  banished  the 
last  of  these  unwelcome  fears.  Yesterday's 
date  headed  it. 

"Dear  old  chap,"  it  ran,  "  I  was  up  the  river 
all  day,  and  got  back  to  town  too  late  to  come 
in  this  evening.  Sorry  to  disappoint  you ; 
write  and  fix  another  day.  Friday  or  sometime 
next  week  will  do." 

"  What  a  cad  I  was  to  think  poor  old  Sop 
bad  taken  the  thing!"  exclaimed  Merceron 


go  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

over  this  message.      "  I  must  write  to  him." 
And  he  did  so  as  soon  as  he  had  breakfasted. 

"  Come  in  again,"  he  wrote.  "  Give  me  a 
clear  day's  notice  first  though,  as  I  have  taken 
your  advice  and  am  going  out  to  see  the  world. 
What  do  you  think  has  become  of  Isabella* 
You  won't  believe  it ;  but  some  idiot  seems  to 
have  walked  in  last  night  and  made  off  with 
her.  It  seems  the  funnier,  because  I  've  given 
up  work  for  good,  and  wouldn't  quite  have 
known  what  to  do  with  Isabella  had  the  idiot 
stayed  at  home.  I  'm  going  to  listen  to  you 
other  fellows  in  future;  so  mind  you  hurry 
up  with  Francesca,  and  make  her  worth 
listening  to." 

"  Hang  it  all,  I  'm  forgetting  all  about  this 
afternoon ! "  cried  Harvey,  as  he  closed  the 
envelope  that  covered  this  note.  Whereupon, 
he  arose  and  went  to  the  window. 


'HOPE  IT'LL  TTRN  FINE  ACAIN  !  " — Page  91- 


Merceron  Goes  to  Bed.  91 

"  Looks  like  rain,"  as  he  inspected  the  frag- 
ment of  heavy  sky  visible  above  the  opposite 
side  of  Down  Street.  "  Hope  it  '11  turn  fine 
again  I " 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  Sopwith  and 
Isabella;  stood  once  more  upon  that  balcony 
overlooking  the  Green  Park  and  Piccadilly. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

AN  EARL'S  CORONET,  A  YELLOW  DOMINO, 
AND  KNIGHTSBRIDGE. 

BEFORE  turning  in  at  his  club  that 
morning,  Merceron  marched  off  to  Bond 
Street,  where  he  bought  a  new  hat  and 
several  pairs  of  the  latest  shade  of  gloves. 
He  also  found  some  boots  that  fitted  him, 
and  looked,  besides,  ever  so  much  smarter 
than  anything  he  had  previously  worn. 
Thence  to  his  tailor's,  whom  he  astonished 
with  the  most  extensive  order  he  had  ever 
bestowed  in  that  direction.  He  went  to 
his  bank  as  well,  and  filled  his  pocket  with 
sovereigns  and  notes ;  why,  he  hardly  knew,  but 
it  all  seemed  part  of  the  new  life  whose  con- 
tinuance was  now  so  close  at  hand.  From 


An  Earl's  Coronet.  93 

here  to  his  club,  where  he  lunched  as  lightly 
as  the  bill  of  fare  would  permit. 

Merceron's  club  was  a  small  and,  as  these 
things  go,  a  rather  select  institution ;  its 
address,  a  biggish  house  in  Piccadilly  that  had 
once  been  private.  He  knew  very  few  of  the 
members — it  had  been  to  him  more  of  a  con- 
venience than  a  social  centre — and  not  even  a 
casual  acquaintance  was  in  the  dining-room  as 
he  sat  down  to  his  meal.  There  entered,  indeed, 
a  certain  Carter-Page,  a  man  whom  he  had 
known  at  Oxford,  but  who,  for  some  reason  of 
his  own,  had  thought  fit  to  ignore  Merceron  upon 
their  re-colliding  in  town.  Harvey  had  not 
lingered  over  the  incident;  he  had  had  little 
time  to  give  to  Carter- Page,  a  familiar  enough 
type  of  middle-class  opportunist. 

To-day,  however,  Carter- Page  seemed  to 
recover  his  memory.  He  nodded  quite  genially 
as  he  came  down  the  room. 


94  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grastnere. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  saw  me  come  in? 
It 's  that  hat,  and  the  gloves  and  boots  ;— 
thinks  I  've  got  a  rise  of  some  sort ! "  was 
Harvey's  ungenerous  interpretation  of  this 
altered  demeanour. 

But  Carter- Page  was  not  content  with  a 
nod ;  must  needs  come  and  take  lunch  at  the 
same  table. 

"  Didn't  know  you  belonged — just  joined, 
I  suppose  ?  "  remarked  Carter- Page,  referring 
to  the  club. 

"Three  years  ago,"  said  Harvey. 

"  Really  ?  Ought  to  have  seen  you  before 
then  ;  but  I  'm  rather  slack." 

"  Fellows  used  to  say  so  at  Oxford,"  from 
Harvey. 

"  You  were  at  The  House,  weren't  you  ?  " 
asked  Carter-Page,  not  visibly  disconcerted. 

"No." 

Carter-Page  changed  the  subject. 


An  Earl's  Coronet.  95 


"  Rather  jolly  club  this, — quiet,  you  know  : 
not  quite  smart,  but  so-so,"  he  observed. 
"  Ever  play  pills  here  ?  " 

"  Haven't  touched  a  cue  for  ages." 

"  How  do  you  like  living  in  town  ?  You  go 
out  a  great  deal,  I  suppose?  Not  working 
much,  are  you  ?  " 

"No;   not  at  all." 

"You  chaps  are  lucky,"  said  Carter-Page, 
with  the  air  of  a  galley-slave.  He  was 
articled  to  a  firm  of  solicitors,  at  whose 
office  he  turned  up  whenever  he  had 
nothing  better  to  do.  "You  chaps  are  lucky. 
And  there's  always  plenty  going,  —  season's 
nearly  over,  though.  I  suppose  you  '11  go 
abroad  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Harvey,  who  was 
obviously  expected  to  say  something.  He  rose 
to  go. 

"  See  you  again  :  I  usually  lunch  and  look  at 


96  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

the  papers  here.  You  're  a  bit  fagged  ?  Don't 
look  it,  though." 

"  Morning,"  said  Merceron. 

It  was  time  for  action.  A  minute  or  two 
later,  Harvey,  gripping  his  umbrella,  set  out 
for  the  Park.  He  would  be  able  to  think  there. 
As  yet  he  had  but  trusted ;  but  now  he  would 
want  all  his  wits. 

It  was  close  on  three  o'clock,  and  the  heavy 
clouds  that  darkened  the  midsummer  sky,  whose 
forerunners  had  already  filled  Merceron  with  a 
certain  amount  of  indignation,  now  began  to 
threaten.  Large  drops,  falling  singly,  were 
their  next  intimation.  Why  was  he  not  allowed 
to  ponder  undisturbed  ? 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  Serpentine,  the 
Park  was  dismal  with  fast  pattering  rain ;  the 
near  bridge  crossed  a  sheet  of  water  from 
which  Cockney  oarsmen  were  fleeing  in  dis- 
gust. Who  was  she  ?  Where  did  she  live  ? 


An  Earl's  Ccronet.  97 


"An  earl's  coronet  and  a  yellow  domino." 
Harvey  had  already  repeated  this  formula  a 
dozen  times  :  how  could  he  discover  more  ? 

He  was  on  the  bridge,  had  halted  midway,  and 

i 

was  now  looking  down  into  the  water  as  though 
half  expecting  to  find  his  answer  there. 

"  An  earl's  coronet  and  a  yellow  domino  that 
had  driven  off  towards  Knightsbridge  ?  " 

He  leaned  over  the  parapet  retelling  these 
three  beads.  More — how  could  he  discover 
more  ?  and  he  stared  ahead  and  round  about, 
unmindful  of  the  inclement  downpour,  trying 
to  see  beyond  this  trio,  to  enlarge  this  brief 
rosary.  The  landscape  grew  familiar,  its  detail 
noticeable, — dark  sky,  dripping  foliage,  and 
leaden  water ;  the  seats  and  benches  along  the 
shore  were  deserted  ;  a  man  was  moving  among 
the  chairs,  placing  them  face  to  face  so  as  to 
keep  them  dry.  It  was  half-past  three,  and  he 
had  promised  to  call  that  afternoon.  Where-  •  • 


98  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmcrc. 

where — where?  Who — who — who?  "An  earl's 
coronet,  a  yellow  domino,  and  Knightsbridge." 

And  now  at  last  the  first  dull  shaft  of  doubt 
grazed  him,  then  a  second  that  bruised.  What 
a  fool  he  had  been  not  to  ask  her  who  she  was, 
where  she  lived !  Why  had  he  not  done  so  ? 
She  would  have  told  him — he  had  been  so  near 
to  her.  And,  brightening  his  misery,  that 
moment  came  back  to  him  ;  that  moment  of 
semi-surrender,  brief,  entrancing,  when  she  had 
leant  so  heavy  on  his  arm  and  looked  up  at 
him  through  half-closed  eyes,  and  he  had  whis- 
pered, "This  afternoon — this  afternoon!" 
These  words  returned,  mocking,  bitter,  extin- 
guishing the  light  that  had  stolen  over  his 
anguish,  now  intensified.  What  a  fool  he  had 
been  1 

Why  had  he  not  asked,  asked — instead  of 
fearing  the  commonplace  question,  the  return 
to  facts,  and  their  jarring  ?  This — this  gazing 


An  Earl's  Coronet.  gg 

at  sky  and  water  from  under  a  dripping 
umbrella-  -was  this  not  commonplace,  jarring, 
a  damper  ?  Cold  water  enough  for  sure  ! 
He  looked  about  him.  Dismal — how  dismal ! 
Rain — how  it  rained  !  And  the  landscape  ! — 
now  a  possession,  every  line  bitten  into  his 
mind ;  he  could  have  gone  home  and  repro- 
duced it  from  memory  alone,  down  to  the  one 
steeple  that  showed  above  the  foliage,  a  slim, 
tapering  thing,  studded  with  points  like  a 
cactus  I 

And  now  his  doubts,  single  at  first,  came 
crowding ;  where  they  had  grazed  and  bruised, 
they  pierced  and  sickened.  Perhaps  he  would 
never  find  her  again  ;  perhaps  she  would  leave 
London  ;  perhaps  to-day  or  to-morrow — perhaps 
was  legion.  His  heart  sank  the  deeper  with 
each  new  possibility;  and  worst,  most  hateful 
of  all,  was  his  knowledge — a  mocking,  cruel 
voice  this — his  consciousness  of  the  utter 


ioo  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

futility  of  his  new  programme,  new  philosophy, 
unless  he  could  obtain  this  woman's  help.  For 
had  he  not  built  his  new  life  up  around  her — 
was  she  not  the  heart  of  it  and  the  kernel,  its 
keystone,  its  Leit-motif?  Without  her,  it  could 
not  be  lived.  The  rest — the  rest  was  lifeless  ; 
without  her  animating  spirit,  dead,  soulless, 
profitless ! 

The  rain  still  poured,  the  Park  was  near 
deserted.  The  rare  passers-by  hurried  on 
regardless  of  all  but  their  present  scurryings 
towards  shelter;  oblivious  to  Merceron,  to 
Merceron's  assailment  of  doubt  and  fear  and 
welling  bitterness  as  he  stood  thinking  on  that 
forsaken  structure — "An  earl's  coronet,  a  yellow 
domino  that  drove  off  towards  Knightsbridge  ?  " 
What  a  fool .  he  was  to  entertain,  why  waste 
more  time  over,  such  a  figment !  His  quest  had 
been  hopeless  from  the  outset,  an  impossible 
conundrum — why  follow  it  further  ?  He  looked 


An  Earl's  Coronet.  101 

below,  the  raindrops  pitted  the  water's  surface. 
Above,  the  clouds  had  grown  still  darker ;  the 
foliage  was  almost  black.  The  landscape,  with 
a  skyline  reaching  from  Kensington  to  Mayfair, 
had  now  become  an  obsession,  a  thing  hateful 
yet  persistent.  He  closed  his  eyes,  it  was  still 
there. 

Yet  darker  grew  the  clouds,  and  the  rain 
continued.  The  new  hat  had  lost  much  of  its 
gloss,  the  patent  leather  of  the  new  boots  was 
dulling.  He  would  go  away ;  perhaps  he  might 
find  the  house  in  Piccadilly  whose  awning  had 
invited  them  last  night.  But  what  could  he  ask 
for,  and  for  whom  ?  "An  earl's  coronet  .  .  .  ?  " 
He  checked  himself,  he  had  had  enough  of  that 
formula !  Out  of  the  heavy  sky  flashed  a  first 
streak  of  lightning,  then  thunder.  The  interval 
was  filled  by  Merceron's  cry : 

"I  have  it  —  that  man,  Carter-Page  —  he 
knows — of  course  he  knows !  " 


IO2  An  Op$ra  6"  Lady  Grasmere. 

Merceron  ran  off  to  get  a  cab. 

"I  must  find  the  little  beast,"  he  muttered 
on  the  way.  "  Of  course  he  knows,  Why  was 
he  so  affable? — he's  cut  me  for  three  years, 
and  now — thank  the  merciful  God  that  created 
snobs !  Somebody  must  have  told  him  that  I 
was  at  that  house  last  night,  or  else  he  saw  me 
there,  and  she 's — '  An  earl's  coronet,  a  yellow 
domino,  and  Knightsbridge ! ' "  cried  Merceron 
joyfully,  as  he  hailed  the  cab  that  drove  him 
back  to  his  club. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

SNOB      TO      THE      RESCUE. 

Countess  of  Grasmere,  for  such  was 
-*•      the  style  and  designation  of  Merceron's 
new    acquaintance,    had    slept    with    extreme 
soundness  after  the    Marchioness's    ball.      Tt 
was  late  in  the  morning  when  she  awoke. 

In  the  deliciously  comfortable  half -hour 
before  rising,  the  recent  event,  and  more 
especially  her  own  part  in  it,  returned,  echo 
of  a  pleasurable  comedy.  She  smiled  over 
each  distant  scene ;  never  had  fairy-tale  and 
romance,  paradoxically  near  and  removed  as 
they  were,  seemed  so  actual.  This  dance  was 
one  of  those  rare  festivities  that  stand  apart 
from  the  ruck.  The  figure  of  her  foremost 
103 


104  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

partner  led  this  train.  He  had,  indeed,  been 
delightful :  and  she  set  to  wondering  whether 
she  would  ever  see  him  again ;  whether  he 
would  really  call — was  it  not  that  very  after- 
noon that  he  was  to  reappear?  They  had 
behaved  like  a  pair  of  reckless  children — how 
young  they  had  been !  Perhaps  he  would  call 
— but  the  next  day  was  so  different  to  far-away 
balconies !  And  the  Countess  sighed.  After 
all,  it  was  but  charming  fairy-tale ;  and  the 
book  was  closed,  the  story  ended. 

Lady  Grasmere  sent  her  maid  to  find  Mrs. 
Hodgson;  and  when  that  lady  appeared,  she 
was  told  to  sit  down  on  the  bed  and  listen. 

Mrs.  Hodgson  was  middle-aged  and  benevo- 
lent, her  eyes  twinkled  humorously  and  her 
mouth  curved  merrily  upwards;  half  guest, 
half  companion,  she  had  spent  that  season 

with   the    Countess    at    the    house  in   Albert 

/ 
Gate. 


Snob  to  the  Rescue.  105 

Her  ladyship  told  of  last  night,  and  Mrs. 
Hodgson  smiled.  Her  ladyship  only  told 
half. 

"  Shocking,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson,  "  I  'm  sur- 
prised at  you !  "  She  was  laughing. 

"  And  if  he  should  call? "  asked  the  Countess. 

"  My  dear!" 

"  I  wish  he  would." 

"Gertrude!" 

"  I  'm  sure  you  would  like  him." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson.  "But 
these  young  m^n,"  and  she  wagged  her  head 
warningly,  "one  never  can  tell." 

"You'd  better  not!"  laughed  the  Countess. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  must  think  of  you  1 " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"  1  know." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson,  patting  the 
Countess'  head. 

"  He  said  ne  loved  me,"  said  the  Countess. 


io6  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Gertrude,  how  can  you  ?  " 

"  He  didn't— but  I  'm  sorry." 

"  What  are  you  sorry  about  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Hodgson. 

"  It 's  all  over,"  said  the  Countess.  It  really 
did  seem  a  pity  that  she  should  see  no  more  of 
this  masterful  unknown  quantity  whose  ex- 
uberant vitality  had  given  her  some  of  the 
keenest  moments  of  that  fast-dying  season. 
"  Why  couldn't  I  have  met  him  in  the  ordinary 
way  ?  "  she  asked  petulantly. 

"  It  wouldn't  have  been  half  such  fun,"  said 
Mrs.  Hodgson,  her  eyes  twinkling  more  than 
ever. 

"  Not  a  quarter,"  said  the  Countess. 

"  Is  this  all  you  wanted  me  for?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hodgson,  rising.  Her  voice  betokened  deep 
disappointment. 

"  Isn't  it  plenty  ? "  asked  the  Countess. 
"You're  going?" 


Snob  to  the  Rescue.  107 

"I  am,  madam;  your  frivolity  is — most 
char  ing,"  and  Mrs.  Hodgson  swept  out, 
amid  a  peal  of  laughter  from  the  bed. 

The  Countess  remained,  her  morning  colla- 
tion well  within  reach.  She  was  still  thinking 
of  Harvey.  He  interested  her.  The  audacity 
of  his  uninvited  presence  at  the  Stoke  ball,  one 
of  the  most  exclusive  "functions  of  the  year, 
delighted  her — and  he  had  carried  his  intrusion 
off  so  well ! 

He  was  unmistakably  a  gentleman,  his  good 
looks  and  bearing  beyond  question.  "He 
wasn't  rude  once — and  he  could  have  been," 
she  reflected.  He  had  clearly  embarked  on  his 
adventure  for  adventure's  sake.  Would  she 
ever  see  him  again  ?  He  might  find  her  out ; 
but  then  she  was  evidently  as  strange  to  him 
as  he  to  her,  and  he  had  asked  no  questions. 
There  were  no  clues,  absolutely  none.  Even 
his  face,  she  pondered,  was  new  to  her,  and 


io8  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

by  degrees  one  really  got  to  know  almost  every 
face  in  town. 

"  Etiquette  is  very  silly — I  wish  I  had  asked 
him  to  call,"  said  the  Countess,  as  she  nibbled 
her  luncheon. 

"So  do  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"One  doesn't  do  these  things,"  replied  the 
Countess. 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson. 
After  a  sufficient  pause  she  added,  "  He  might 
have  asked  permission.' 

"  That 's  all  he  did  ask,"  sighed  the  Countess. 

"Then  he  will  come,"  asserted  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"  But  he  knows  nothing — and  he 's  a  perfect 
innocent." 

"The  more  reason.'* 

"Adam  on  his  honeymoon  must  have  be- 
haved like  this  man,"  said  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  What  a  notion  !  "  Mrs.  Hodgson  then 
turned  to  the  brooding  sky.  "I  told  Mrs. 


Snob  to  the  Rescue.  109 

Pretty  I  'd  go  with  her  to  that  new  palmist 
everybody's  talking  about,  and  it's  going  to 
rain." 

"  So  you  're  going  out  ?  " 

"  To  have  my  fortune  told.** 

"  If  he  calls  shall  I  receive  him  ?H 

"  You  may,  if  you  promise " 

"  Promise  ?  " 

"To  keep  him  till  I  come  back,"  said  Mrs. 
Hodgson. 

"  I  '11   only  allow   you    one    look,"    said   the 
Countess. 

After  lunch  Mrs.  Hodgson  busied  herself- 
with  the  manufacture  of  a  corduroy  waistcoat, 
a  problem  in  silk  and  wool  and  paper,  whose 
solution  was  to  keep  Mr.  Hodgson's  chest 
warm  during  subsequent  winters.  The  Countess 
alternately  answered  her  letters  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  at  the  rain. 

"I  wish  it  wouldn't,"  protested  Mrs.  Hodgson. 


no  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

At  four  o'clock  came  lightning  and  thunder. 
"  I  can't  go  out  in  this  weather,"  she  added. 

The  Countess  went  to  her  room.  It  grew  so 
dark  that  Mrs.  Hodgson  had  to  lay  the  waist- 
coat aside. 

"Gertrude  seems  a  trifle  disordered,"  she 
remarked  to  the  world  at  large.  "  But  Gertrude 
has  very  good  taste  —  it's  the  same  as 
mine." 

Meanwhile,  Merceron  was  driving  back  to 
his  club,  arranging  his  plan  of  attack  as  the 
cab  covered  the  intervening  ground.  Arrived, 
he  casually  inquired  of  the  porter  whether 
Carter-Page  had  left. 

The  man's  "No,  sir,"  was  worth  bank- 
notes. 

With  the  same  assumption  of  leisure  Harvey 
proceeded  to  search  the  building.  He  found 
Carter- Page  in  the  billiard  -  room,  cue  in 
hand. 


Snob  to  the  Rescue.  in 

This  time  it  was  Harvey  who  nodded  and 
took  a  seat. 

"Rather  a  good  stroke  that,"  he  observed 
critically,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Not  bad,  assented  Carter- Page,  figuring 
out  a  cannon. 

"Why  didn't  you  play  at  the  red  and  go 
in  ?  "  asked  Harvey,  greatly  interested,  as  the 
cannon  failed. 

'  "  I 'm  not  specially  good  at  long  shots;"  and 
Carter -Page  stood  aside  and  watched  his 
opponent. 

"  Neat,"  said  Harvey,  as  the  latter  went  in 
off  the  red. 

"  Have  a  drink  ?  "  said  Carter- Page. 

"  Yes — I  'm  a  bit  cheap,  was  dancing  half 
the  night,"  remarked  Harvey — his  first  move 
in  this  other  game  of  pump. 

"  Stoke  House  ?  "  inquired  Carter  -  Page. 
"  I  '11  trouble  you  for  the  '  rest.' " 


112  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Harv  ey  handed  it  to  him.  "  I  '11  trouble  yot 
for  the  rest — Stoke  House — that's  one  t< 
me !  "  was  his  inward  cry. 

"  Thirty-four — forty-five,"  said  Carter-Page 
coming  out  of  play. 

"  It  was  rather  fun — masks  and  dominos, 
you  know.  But  you  were  there  too,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

«  No " 

"  You  're  not  a  dancing  man  ? "  Harvey 
agreeably  suggested. 

"  Dashed  poor  leave  that !  "  and  Carter-Page 
moved  away  and  pocketed  the  red.  "  Hard 
lines ! "  from  Harvey,  as  he  almost  cannoned. 
The  white  fluked  in.  Carter-Page  continued. 
The  break  yielded  fifteen — and  all  the  while 
Harvey  looked  on  with  brow  unclouded. 

"  Rather  a  run  that,"  he  said,  as  Carter- Page 
.owered  his  cue. 

\i  the  other  man  scored. 


Snob  to  the  Rescue.  113 

A  servant  brought  Harvey  a  whisky-and- 
soda,  which  he  was  obliged  to  taste. 

"  Don't  care  for  dances  ?"  he  enquired,  as  he 
set  the  glass  down  again. 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  do.  I  don't  know  the  Stbkes, 
though.  Bonner,  do  you  remember  him  ?  " 

"  Bonner  of  New  ?  "  asked  Harvey. 

"Yes.  He  was  there — you  were  rather  in 
luck,"  said  Carter-Page  with  a  grin. 

"  Forty-nine — sixty-two,"  said  the  enemy. 

Harvey's  heart  was  rising — he  was  nearer, 
much  nearer. 

Carter- Page  pocketed  and  went  in,  brought 
off  an  easy  cannon,  another,  and  failed  to  go  in 
off  the  red. 

"  Can't  do  anything  when  it 's  under  the 
cushion,"  he  declared. 

"Hard  lines,"  sympathised  Harvey;  "you 
weren't  in  luck  if  I  was — rlon't  quite  see  where 

mine  comes  in,  though." 
8 


ii4          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Luck  ?  "  asked  Carter- Page. 

"  You  just  mentioned  the  article." 

"  Oh,  yes — Lady  Grasmere, — you  were  rather 
making  the  pace." 

Harvey  was  clinging  to  the  name  like  grim 
death. 

"An  old  friend,"  he  remarked. 

Carter- Page  seemed  impressed.  He  had  to 
play  in  baulk,  and  missed. 

"Have  a  cigarette?"  said  Harvey;  "I'm 
just  going  over  to  the  reading-room — may  see 
you  later  on  ?  " 

"  I  '11  come  up  afterwards ;  the  weather  *s 
much  too  beastly  to  do  anything,"  said  Carter- 
Page. 

"  Grasmere — he  said  Grasmere  ! "  Harvey 
had  rushed  upstairs,  had  pulled  down  the  big 
directory.  "  Law — Commercial — Court — Court, 
that  '11  be  it  .  .  .  '  Grasmere,  Countess  of,' " 
his  finger  was  on  the  line,  he  had  the  direction. 


Snob  to  the  Rescue.  115 

Soiled  hat  and  dripping  umbrella,  what  did 
they  matter ! 

Ten  mintes  later  his  hansom  drew  up  at  the 
house  in  Albert  Gate. 

Before  him  stood  a  dainty  red-brick  mansion, 
freshly  picked  out  with  white  and  gay  with 
well-filled  window-boxes.  He  looked  up,  the 
sky  was  clearing  ;  facing  him  was  the  equestrian 
statue  of  a  recent  general  and  the  point  of  a 
wedge  whose  sides  formed  two  important  main 
roads. 

A  man  opened  to  him.  Was  Lady  Grasmere 
at  home  ?  The  man  would  go  and  see.  His 
name? 

"  Merceron.1* 

"Mr.  Mason?" 

Harvey,  palpitating,  was  shown  Into  a  room, 
and  waited. 

Presently  the  man  returned  and  deferentially 
took  possession  of  Harvey's  umbrella,  then  led 


n6  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

the  way  up  thickly-carpeted  stairs  to  a 
charmingly  furnished  drawing-room. 

A  middle-aged  lady  received  him.  Had  he 
come  to  the  wrong  house  ? 

"Dreadful  weather,  Mr.  Marsden."  That 
man  had  evidently  corrupted  his  name  a 
second  time. 

"  Very,"  assented  Harvey.  What  did  this 
mean,  and  where  was  he  ? 

"  Cats  and  dogs,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Harvey,  his  perplexity 
increasing. 

Light  at  last !  The  Countess  had  laughingly 
interposed.  She  entered,  little  changed  from 
the  woman  of  last  night,  was  wearing  blue 
instead  of  yellow. 

"  Mrs.  Hodgson,"  s-aid  the  Countess.  Harvey 
bowed.  "  But  she  has  to  take  a  friend  to  get 
their  fortunes  told." 

"  Unfortunately,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson. 


Snob  to  the  R'scue.  117 

"Can  we  spare  her?"  asked  the  Countess. 

Harvey  only  smiled — the  best  thing  he  could 
have  done. 

"  Nice  face,  nice  smile  ;  beware ! "  whispered 
Mrs.  Hodgson  at  the  door.  The  Countess  closed 
it  on  her. 

They  were  alone  now,  and  Merceron  was 
looking  up  at  his  companion  in  a  rebound  of 
happiness,  almost  doubting  the  evidence  of  his 
five  senses.  His  eyes  wandered  from  his 
hostess,  roamed  round  the  exquisite  interior, 
to  its  hundred  and  one  knick-knacks  in  silver 
and  china  and  glass,  its  photographs  of  unknown 
faces,  and  the  unfamiliar  pictures  on  the  walls ; 
and  he  was  glad. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE      GATES     OPEN. 

\  TERCERON  sat  in  the  seventh  heaven 
•L* A  and  sipped  his  tea. 

"  So  you  've  found  me  out ! "  the  Countess 
had  just  observed. 

"  It  was  my  turn,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh, 
recalling  his  own  confessions  of  the  night 
before. 

"  But  so  soon ! " 

"  Did  you  doubt  my  success?" 

"  I  was  not  so  modest,"  she  answered, 
smiling;  "besides,  you  had  threatened." 

"  '  This  afternoon  I '  "  he  quoted. 

"  Are  you  always  so  sure  ?  " 

"  The  gods  fought  on  my  side ;  "  and  he  told 

nft 


The  Gates  Open.  ng 


her  how  he  had  soliloquised  in  the  Park,  of 
Carter- Page,  and  the  crafty  extraction  of 
"  Stoke  House "  and  "  Lady  Grasmere." 
Like  most  men  who  have  lived  much  alone, 
Harvey  recounted  each  incident  with  the 
personal  zest  and  elaborations  of  a  professed 
story-teller. 

"And  that  is  all  you  know?"  she  asked,  as 
he  concluded. 

"That— and  you!" 

"No  more?" 

"  I  am  content,"  he  replied,   unmistakably 
sincere. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  ?  ° 

"  Not  specially.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  You  have  never  studied  Burke  ?  " 

"  I  once  looked  at  Debrett." 

"  For  whom  ?  " 

"  Lady  A.,"  said  Merceron,  helping  himself 
to   a  cucumber  sandwich.      "  Lady  A.  is  the 


120  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grastnere. 

only  member  of  the  aristocracy  who  ever 
aroused  my  interest ;  and  she  was  fraudulent." 

The  Countess  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

He  hastened  to  her  relief. 

"  Lady  A.,"  he  explained,  "  is  the  only 
titled  person  I  ever  pondered  over  and 
delighted  in;  and  she  was — I  regret  to  say 
it — an  impostor." 

"  Explain !  "  said  the  Countess. 

Merceron  smiled  over  this  show  of  alarm, 
and  continued  with  the  same  zest  as  had 
marked  his  account  of  the  Carter-Page 
incident : 

"  I  was  staying  at  a  small  seaside  town  one 
summer,  and  so  was  Lady  A.  A  child  in  the 
house,  a  niece  of  my  landlady  and  a  native  of 
Camberwell,  first  drew  my  attention  to  Lady  A. 
Her  ladyship  used  to  speak  to  this  child ;  they 
had  met  on  the  beach,  and  the  child  was  proud 
of  the  acquaintanceship.  It  babbled  unceas- 


The  Gates  Open.  121 

ingly  of  Lady  A.  I  had  never  seen  this 
personage,  but  her  name,  her  name  alone, 
delighted  me.  There  was  something  romantic 
and  mysterious  in  that  reticent  initial.  It 
recalled  fashionable  fiction  of  the  thirties, 
of  that  inflated  period  \  hen  Lady  A.  and 
Lord  B.  and  Lady  N.  strutted  through  inflated 
story  books.  For  a  whole  fortnight  I  built 
castles  around  Lady  A. ;  for  a  whole  fortnight 
Lady  A.  shed  a  glamour  over  my  existence, 
inflated  it,  so  to  speak.  This  Camberwell  child 
prated  of  her  without  cease,  and  I  was  delighted 
to  live  within  a  stone's  throw  of  such  mystery. 
At  last — dire  disillusion — my  eyes  were  opened ! 
The  child  was  with  me  at  the  time,  this  child 
from  Camberwell." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  Countess. 

"  I  encountered  Lady  A.,"  continued 
Merceron.  "  Her  ladyship  was  a  middle-aged 
woman  with  a  wide  leather  rim  to  her  skirt, 


122          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

and  a  big  dog.  This  child  and  I  were 
advancing  together ;  we  were  quite  close  to  the 
heroine  of  my  romances,  my  one  distraction 
amid  so  much  that  was  ordinary.  'That  is 
Lady  A.,'  whispered  the  child,  awestruck  and 
tremulous.  *  Hay,  child,  Hay ! '  exclaimed  her 
ladyship.  She  had  heard  the  whisper.  Then 
turning  to  me,  'This  little  girl  will  persist  in 
dropping  her  aitches,'  she  said.  But  I  had 
already  turned  my  back  on  Lady  Hay.  The 
spell  was  broken;  romance  and  mystery  had 
vanished.  She  was  no  Lady  A.  at  all,  but  a 
mere  Hayl  You  may  find  them  in  any 
Peerage,"  concluded  Merceron. 

The  Countess  was  laughing. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  a  fact  equally  substantial," 
she  said. 

"  But  you   do   not    masquerade    under    an 
initial." 

"  You  wear  even  less." 


The  Gates  Open.  123 

The  comic  situation  came  home  to  Harvey. 
Laughing,  he  produced  a  card. 

She  read  it  curiously. 

"I  like  the  name,"  she  said;  "only, 
I  '11  have  to  learn  it  by  heart — and  Harvey 
is  nice." 

"Suggests  a  good  circulation,"  he  remarked. 

"  You  must  tell  me  some  more,  though  ?  " 

"  I  was  born  three  years  earlier  than  your- 
self," he  answered,  risking  the  accuracy  of  the 
statement. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  ** 

"  I  'm  nearly  twenty-six." 

"But ,"  and  she  was  about  to  express 

her  surprise  at  his  correct  divination.  She 
caught  the  merriment  in  his  eye,  instead. 

"  That  was  very  clever — a  perfect  trap,"  she 
said. 

"  You  have  never  even  heard  of  the 
Mercerons  ?  "  asked  Harvey. 


124  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  We  are  a  remarkable  family." 

"  I  am  not  surprised." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Came  over  with  the  Conqueror,  I  suppose— 
Merceron  sounds  like  it  ?  " 

"  Came  over  vid  Dieppe  and  Newhaven,  I 
believe ;  but  the  Mercerons  are  famous,  never- 
theless. You  don't  happen  to  play  the  barrel- 
organ  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No— how  silly!" 

He  disregarded  the  epithet. 

"The  Mercerons  are  the  only  monopolists  in 
this  country,"  said  he. 

"  Is  it  a  patent  something  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  a  monopoly  all  the  same.  My 
great-grandfather,  you  must  know,  was  an 
organist — quite  a  musician  in  his  way.  His 
son  too  was  musical,  but  preferred  building 
organs  to  playing  on  them.  There  was  more 


The  Gates  Open.  125 

money  in  it.  It  was  he  who  made  the  first 
barrel-organs  in  this  country.  They  had  always 
come  from  abroad,  from  Italy,  before.  Of 
course  he  could  sell  them  cheaper,  making  them 
on  the  spot.  And  when  my  father  succeeded 
him — evolution  had  already  displaced  the  barrel- 
organ  by  the  piano-organ  —  the  Mercerons 
practically  had  the  monopoly  of  the  street- 
organ  trade.  Now  I  'm  sole  proprietor.  I  go 
down  to  the  works  once  or  twice  a  year  and 
look  at  the  books.  It  pays,  but  it 's  a  sad 
eminence  all  the  same." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  Countess,  greatly  in- 
terested. 

"  Well,  you  see ;  every  piano-organ  in  this 
country  comes  out  of  the  Merceron  works. 
My  own  position  is  therefore  most  awkward. 
For,  not  only  do  I  connive  at  and  profit 
by  the  misery  of  thousands  of  my  fellow- 
creatures,  but,  whenever  I  myself  am  victim- 


i26          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

ised,  whenever  some  miserable  Italian  halts 
outside  my  rooms  and  tortures  me  with 
my  —  with  his  infernal  machine  —  what  am 
I  to  do!  The  position  is  most  delicate. 
I  can't  send  him  away,  for  didn't  I  sell  him 
the  instrument  ?  " 

The  Countess  laughed. 

But  Harvey  continued : 

"What  can  I  do  to  such  a  man?  Nothing. 
And  I  really  cannot  afford  to  wind  up  the  firm 
over  a  simple  matter  of  etiquette  I  " 

"You  are  musical  yourself?"  asked  the 
Countess. 

Harvey  hesitated. 

"No — no,  certainly  not;  only  the  cause  of 
music  in  others." 

He  had  deflected  the  shaft. 

Here  a  servant  interrupted  them,  announcing 
"Captain  Mills."  Was  Lady  Grasmere  at 
home? 


The  Gates  Open.  127 


She  looked  across  at  Harvey. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

As  yet  she  had  only  known  her  companion 
tite~a-tete.  She  was  curious  to  see  how  he 
would  figure  in  a  more  complex  arena. 


CHAPTER    XL 

THEY     OPEN      WIDER. 

"  But  the  society  named  polite  is  volatile  .  .  .  ideas  cannot  take 
foot  in  its  ever-shifting  soil.  It  is  besides  addicted  in  self-defence  to 
gabble  exclusively  of  the  a/airs  of  its  rabidly  revolving  world,  as 
children  on  a  whirligoround  bestow  their  attention  on  the  wooden 
horse  or  cradle  ahead  of  them,  to  escape  from  giddiness  and  preserve 
a  notion  of  identity." 

GEORGE  MEREDITH,  An  Essay  on  Comedy. 

'pAPTAIN  MILLS,"  said  Merceron,  "you 
^  mistook  me  for  Captain  Mills  last 
night?" 

The  Countess  agreed. 

"  Shall  I  thank  him ;  I  owe  him  even  more 
than  Hutchinson  ?  " 

The  door  opened,  and  Merceron  was  intro- 
duced to  a  man  of  his  own  figure,  handsome  and 
sunburnt  of  face,  whose  neat  moustache  was 
trimmed  with  military  precision. 


They  Open  Wider.  129 

"Awful  weather  1"  said  the  new-comer, 
taking  a  chair. 

"  Perfectly  horrid ! "  assented  Lady  Grasmere . 
Merceron,  though  an  authority,  expressed  no 
opinion. 

"It's  clearing  up,  though,"  said  Captain 
Mills.  "  I  heard  you  were  at  the  Stoke  ball — 
rather  fun  wearing  masks — what  were  you  in  ? 
I  hunted  for  you  everywhere,  but  couldn't  find 
you,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  Countess. 

"  I  was  in  yellow — it  was  very  amusing,"  she 
replied.  "  Mr.  Merceron  was  in  black,  and  had, 
I  believe,  some  remarkable  adventures,"  she 
roguishly  added. 

"  Really  ?  "  said  the  soldier,  turning  to  Harvey. 
Harvey    however,  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 
"  The  supper  was   excellent,"  he  returned, 
with  edifying  correctness. 

"  Going    to     Goodwood  ?  "    asked    Captain 
Mills. 

9 


130          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  I  haven't  decided — I  suppose  I  ought  to. 
You  are  ?  "  from  Lady  Grasmere. 

"I'm  going  to  the  Bassets — he's  our 
Colonel,  you  know.  Lady  Basset  usually  asks 
half  the  regiment  and  all  her  nieces." 

"  Dangerous,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  There 's  safety  in  numbers.  You  won't  be 
at  Cowes  ?  "  asked  the  Captain. 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  You  never  are." 

Here  the  man  interrupted  them,  announcing 
the  Marchioness  of  Stoke  and  Lady  May 
Draper. 

"  Shocking  weather !  "  said  the  Marchioness, 
as  the  circle  widened.  Lady  May  drawled  in 
sympathy,  and  Merceron  at  once  recognised 
the  pink  domino  whom  he  had  so  effectually 
routed  the  night  before.  The  Marchioness,  he 
already  knew  for  his  hostess. 

"  Shocking  weather  1 "  she  repeated  in  a  tone 


They  Open  Wider.  131 

suggesting  that  she  looked  upon  the  behaviour 
of  the  elements  as  an  offence  directly  aimed 
against  her  own  person.  "  Most  unpleasant !  " 

"  But  it 's  clearing,  is  it  not  ?  "  replied  Lady 
Grasmere.  "  Your  dance  was  perfectly  lovely, 
Marchioness;  even  Captain  Mills  says  it  was 
delightful,  and  he 's  quite  spoiled." 

The  Marchioness,  pausing  in  her  inspec- 
tion of  Merceron,  responded  with  a  faded 
smile. 

"  I  didn't  quite  catch  his  name  last  night  ?  " 
she  said  in  a  loud  whisper  to  the  Countess,  who 
enlightened  her.  Lady  Stoke  repeated  it. 
The  name  had  a  pleasant  sound,  but  was 
unfamiliar. 

Lady  May,  meanwhile,  was  telling  the  others 
how  she  had  come  across  a  terribly  rude  man 
the  night  before. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  who  it  was !  "  she  concluded 
vindictively. 


132  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Merceron,  however,  rendered  her  no  assist- 
ance. 

The  Marchioness  was  monopolising  Lady 
Grasmere. 

"  Vv'hen  are  you  leaving  town  ? "  she  was 
asking.  "  We  're  staying  till  Goodwood  :  of 
course  you  '11  be  there  ?  " 

"  I  really  haven't  quite  decided  ;  it 's  such  a 
long  way  off,  you  know,"  came  in  reply. 

"A  fortnight,  my  dear  Gertrude, — and  every- 
thing 's  being  snapped  up." 

The  remainder  of  the  party  was  deep  in 
racing  matters.  Lady  May  had  just  asked 
Harvey  whether  he  preferred  Ascot  to  Good- 
wood, and  he  had  startled  his  audience  by 
confessing  that  he  knew  nothing  of  either,  that 
he  had  only  seen  a  fraction  of  a  race  in  his  life- 
time, and  that  by  sheer  accident.  He  gave  an 
account  of  this  latter  experience ;  how,  as  a 
small  boy,  he  was  once  exploring  Brighton 


They  Open  Wider.  133 

Downs,  when,  in  a  deserted  spot,  he  inad- 
vertently stumbled  across  a  group  of  mounted 
jockeys,  who  took  to  their  heels  at  his  approach. 
On  reflection,  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  he 
must  have  witnessed  a  "start." 

Lady  May  received  this  explanation  with 
her  customary  Arctic  smile.  Captain  Mills 
was  greatly  amused.  They  evidently  mistook 
Merceron's  plain  statement  of  fact  for  some 
peculiarly  waggish  piece  of  humour. 

Here  they  were  again  interrupted  by  the 
man,  who  ushered  in  Lady  Horace  Waring. 

A  young  and  very  pretty  woman — Merceron 
distinctly  remembered  having  seen  photographs 
of  her  in  shop  windows, — perfectly  dressed, 
smart  as  a  new  pin,  joined  them. 

"  Dreadful  weather ;  but  it 's  clearing  up," 
she  said,  advancing  towards  Lady  Grasmere. 
"Marchioness,  everybody's  raving  about  your 
dance — so  original,  you  know  I — such  fun  being 


134          An  Opera  6-  Lady  Grasmere. 

masked  and  flirting  with  one's  own  husband. 
Mine  kissed  me,  the  wretch  1  Wonder  who  he 
thought  I  was  ?  " 

"  Rather  poor  fun,  kissing  a  mask,"  suggested 
Harvey. 

"There  now — he's  quite  spoilt  it  I "  exclaimed 
Lady  Horace. 

She  was  one  of  the  most  amusing  women  in 
Society,  and  her  veracity,  though  frequently 
questioned,  was  rarely  improved  upon.  She 
was  the  first,  however,  to  laugh  at  her  own 
undoing,  and  the  others  quickly  followed  suit. 

"Who  is  he,  Gertrude?"  she  asked  of 
Lady  Grasmere. 

The  Countess  told  her, 

"  One  of  the  Hertfordshire  Mercerons  ?  "  she 
enquired. 

"  The  Hertfordshire  Merceron,"  said  Harvey. 

"  Girls  hunt,  don't  they — your  sisters  ?  '* 

"Yes." 


They  Open  Wider.  135 

"Pretty  girls — don't  want  much  of  a  lead 
either,"  said  Lady  Horace  approvingly ;  then, 
volatile  as  before,  in  that  rather  shrill  voice  of 
hers,  "See  you  all  at  Goodwood,  I  suppose? 
We  're  full  up  or  else  some  of  you  would  have 
to  come  to  ours." 

Everybody  had  made  definite  arrangements 
save  Lady  Grasmere  and  Harvey. 

Lady  Horace  was  pained. 

"You  must  come  to  us,  dear — do!"  she 
pleaded ;  "  and  Mr.  Merceron  must  come  as 
well — men  are  always  so  useful,  are  they  not  ?  " 
she  asked,  mischievously  confusing  Captain 
Mills  with  the  awkward  question. 

"  They  do  their  best,"  said  he. 

"  Aren't  they  ornamental  as  well  ?  "  asked 
Harvey. 

"  Only  in  fancy  dress,"  declared  Lady  Horace, 
"  and  then 

She  hesitated. 


136  An  Opera  &•  Lady  Graswere. 

"And  then?"  pressed  Captain  Mills. 

"And  then  it 's  their  legs,"  she  whispered. 

The  Marchioness  coughed  and  mentioned 
Cowes. 

"  Calves ! "  corrected  Lady  Horace  in  an 
audible  aside. 

"  We  've  taken  a  house  for  the  week,"  con- 
tinued the  Marchioness,  disregarding  the 
interruption. 

"Is  Gertrude  coming?"  enquired  Lady  May. 

But  the  Countess  had  to  decline.  She  was 
going  to  Canterbury  for  the  cricket  week 
instead. 

"  You  know,  I  've  a  place  in  Kent,"  she 
explained;  "it's  a  matter  of  duty.  The  county 
will  cut  me  if  I  don't  entertain ;  we  always 
have  done." 

The  Marchioness  was  sorry.  She  and  Lady 
May  rose  to  leave. 

"We  're  going  to  the  Opera  to-night,  and  it 


They  Open  Wider.  137 

begins  so  early — that  wretched  Wagner !  "  said 
the  former. 

"  What  are  they  giving  ?  "  asked  Captain 
Mills. 

"Siegfried;  and  it  starts  at  half- past  seven, 
and  the  Marquis  will  insist  on  being  punctual. 
He  won't  dine  either,  but  just  has  a  cup  of  tea 
first,  and  then  he  eats  sandwiches  between  the 
acts.  He  says  he  can't  listen  properly  if  he 
dines,"  answered  the  Marchioness  ;  "  only 
think  of  it — with  those  wretched  society  papers, 
too ! " 

Lady  Horace  comforted  her. 

"Siegfried  is  rather  fun,  though;  everybody 
dresses  just  like  the  men  in  the  Prehistoric 
Peeps,"  she  said,  alluding  to  a  well-known 
series  of  Punch  drawings.  "And  then  there's 
a  dragon  that  sings  bass  and  pretends  to  get 
killed,  and  a  bear  and  a  bird — quite  a  panto- 
mime. But  the  music's  lovely:  Sir  Horace 


138  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

heard  it  the  other  day,  and  he  came  home 
gushing — gushing  like  the  rock  that  Moses 
struck  1 " 

Lady  May  and  her  mamma  took  their 
departure. 

"Rather  a  stick,  that  girl,"  said  Captain 
Mills,  as  the  door  closed. 

"  Pots  o'  money,"  said  Lady  Horace. 

"Suppose  that's  why  she  puts  on  the 
side." 

A  mischievous  light  gleamed  in  Lady  Gras- 
mere's  eye  as  she  turned  to  Harvey,  and 
asked : 

"  How  did  you  find  her — you  were  dancing 
with  her  last  night  ?  " 

Merceron  narrated  his  experience  with  the 
pink  domino,  omitting  no  detail  of  their 
duologue. 

"  Made  her  regularly  furious,  I  should  think ; 
serve  her  right,"  said*  Lady  Horace  warmly. 


They  Open  Wider.  139 

"No  wonder  she  doesn't  marry — with  those 
manners ! " 

Captain  Mills  too  was  delighted. 

"  You  should  have  passed  her  on  to  me,"  he 
said ;  "  do  her  good,  a  snubbing  o'  sorts  like 
that — wonder  she  didn't  find  you  out  just 
now!" 

"  Far  too  silly,"  said  Lady  Horace.  "  Ger- 
trude, I  really  must  go — see  you  at  the 
Faucits'  to  -  night  ?  And  do  bring  Mrs. 
Hodgson ;  I  've  quite  missed  her  this  after- 
noon." She  gave  Harvey  a  hand.  "You're 
coming  for  Goodwood,  aren't  you  ? "  she 
said.  "And  you  must  come  and  dine  first, 
and  say  *  How-de-do  ? '  to  Sir  Horace — mind 
he  does,"  as  she  turned  again  to  Lady 
Grasmere.  "  Nice  boy  that  1 "  she  whispered  ; 
•'I'm  quite  hit.  Good-bye,  dearl"  and  she 
was  off. 

Captain  Mills  left  shortly  afterwards. 


140  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  us  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Grasmere,  when  she  and  Harvey  were  once 
more  alone. 

"  Rather  fun,  wasn't  it  ?  "  he  replied. 

She  was  proud  of  him. 

"You  really  did  splendidly,"  she  said. 
"  You  Ve  made  quite  a  conquest  of  Lady 
Horace.  She  doesn't  ask  everybody  to 
her  parties,  although  one  might  think  she 
did !  Seems  to  know  your  people,  doesn't 
she  ?  " 

"  The  girls,"  said  Harvey. 

A  silence  followed.  Merceron  leaned  back, 
happy.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
dismal  minutes  he  had  spent  in  the  rain, 
looking  out  over  the  dreary  Serpentine  and 
leaden  sky. 

The  Countess  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  Mr.  Merceron,"  she  interposed,  "  will  yon 
go  home  now  ? " 


"YOU    REALLY    1)11)    SPLENDIDLY,    SHE    SAID." Pagi'    140. 


They  Open  Wider.  141 

Harvey's  face  fell.  She  smiled  it  back  to  a 
more  gracious  oval. 

"  Go  home  and  dress,"  she  continued ;  "  and, 
if  you  are  very  good,  you  may  come  back  and 
dine — or  take  me  out.  We'd  better  go  out, 
I  want  some  fresh  air;  and  it's  left  off  raining, 
hasn't  it?" 

Merceron  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  It 's  quite  bright,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  be  long ! "  and  she  accompanied 
him  to  the  head  of  the  staircase  and  waved  a 
hand  as  he  disappeared. 

At  his  rooms  Merceron  found  a  letter  from 
Hutchinson. 

"  Dear  Harvey,"  began  that  youthful  mariner, 
— "  Do  wrte  and  tell  me  what  happened  after 
I  left  ?  I  shall  be  at  Devonport  till  Saturday. 
Did  they  give  you  the  boot,  or  did  you  leave 
unassisted  ?  I  would  have  looked  in  this 


142  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

morning  to  find  out,  only  I  had  to  hurry  like 
steam.  Write  by  return,  there's  a  good  chap, 
and  relieve  the  strain.  I  'd  give  a  fiver  to 
know  what  happened. 

"Yours  ever, 

"  C.  C.  H.  HUTCHINSON." 

A  lengthy  postscript  was,  however,  the  most 
interesting  feature  of  this  document. 

"By-the-by,"  Hutchinson  had  added, 
"  Phipps,  a  brother-officer,  was  at  your  rooms 
last  night.  He  was  up  in  town  on  leave  as 
well,  and  he  hunted  me  down  to  my  aunt's, 
and  she  sent  him  on  to  your  place.  He 
waited  a  bit;  but,  as  we  didn't  turn  up,  he 
left.  I  'm  sorry  we  missed  him.  He  s  an 
awfully  good  sort,  and  ou  'd  have  liked 
him,  because  he 's  musical  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing." 


They  Open  Wider.  143 

"Is  he?"  commented  Harvey,  "perhaps 
that  accounts  for  his  helping  himself  to 
Isabella!" 

He  thought  the  possibilities  of  this  solution 
over  for  a  moment,  then : 

"  Hang  it  all !  I  'm  keeping  a  lady  waiting! " 
he  exclaimed,  forcibly  dismissing  the  subject 
and  ringing  up  his  man. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

ARRIVED. 

F?OR  the  present,  Merceron  had  dismissed 
•*•  Hutchinson's  message  and  the  light  it 
seemed  to  throw  upon  his  mysterious  visitor 
of  the  night  before,  upon  the  unexplained 
disappearance  of  the  score  and  libretto  of  his 
opera,  Isabella,  and  the  damage  done  to  the 
violated  cabinet.  He  was  dressing  with  all 
possible  haste,  yet  not  too  speedily  to  admit  of 
the  immaculate,  spoiling  two  bows  and  a  collar 
before  criticism  was  satisfied  and  he  at  liberty 
to  proceed.  Hancock,  his  man,  assisted, 
blazing  with  surprise  and  suppressed  joyful- 
ness,  scenting  perquisites  tenfolded.  What 
ailed  his  master  ? 


Arrived.  145 

"  It 's  them  women,"  said  he,  when  all  was 
over.  "That  there  Hutchinson  looks  a  bad  lot !  " 

Harvey's  appearance  was  really  worthy  of 
the  locality  as  he  sauntered  forth  into  Piccadilly 
and  hailed  a  passing  cab.  Even  the  driver 
of  the  hansom,  an  expert  and  difficult,  felt 
fully  satified  as  to  his  fare's  distinction. 

Before  returning  to  Albert  Gate,  Merceron 
looked  in  at  his  club  and  took  down  Debrett, 
first  making  sure  that  Carter- Page  was  nowhere 
In  the  vicinity. 

"  It  may  be  foolish,  but  it  saves  trouble," 
said  Harvey,  as  he  turned  up  "  Grasmere." 

He  discovered  that  the  Countess  was  widow 
to  the  seventh  Earl,  who  had  died  three  years 
ago  and  eighteen  months  after  marriage,  without 
issue  and  aged  sixty-two ;  that  the  present 
holder  of  the  title  was  a  nephew,  a  boy  of 
sixteen.  Harvey  also  searched  for  and  found 

Sir    Horace    Waring,   evidently    one    of   two 
10 


146          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

brothers,  both  baronets.  He  then  rejoined 
his  hansom  and  called  at  a  florist's,  arriving 
at  the  house  with  a  carefully-selected  button- 
hole in  his  coat  and  a  big  handful  of  roses 
for  Lady  Grasmere. 

The  Countess  was  not  quite  ready,  and  for 
some  minutes  Harvey  had  to  twirl  his  thumbs 
in  an  unfamiliar  drawing-room ;  a  new  apart- 
ment this,  hung  with  exquisite  water-colour 
drawings — Fred  Walkers,  Pinwells,  Gregorys 
and  Smythes, — which  he  fitfully  examined  till 
his  hostess  welcomed  him,  superb  and  dazzling 
in  creamy  satin  and  diamonds. 

"  I  Ve  left  a  note  for  Mrs.  Hodgson ;  we  're 
deserting  her  this  evening,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  We  are  dining  in  town — where  ?  " 

Harvey  suggested  the  place  on  the  Embank- 
ment, beloved  of  Hutchinson,  and  the  Countess 
acquiesced.  Outside,  the  horses  waited,  im- 
patient for  exercise. 


Arrived.  147 

The  rain  had  long  since  ceased,  and  now 
the  sky  was  clear — a  blue  new-washed,  though 
bordered  by  heavy  banks  of  cloud  that 
smouldered  a  dun  orange  where  the  sun 
was  sinking.  They  drove  down  Piccadilly  in 
the  open  carriage,  side  by  side,  with  London, 
crowded  and  astir,  swarming  to  right  and  to 

• 

left  of  them,  enclosing  them  with  a  changing 
wall  of  flesh  and  blood.  Merceron  had  found 
his  starting-point  at  last,  had  indeed  begun  to 
share  that  brilliant  Life  of  which  but  yesterday 
he  had  stood  a  fevered  spectator.  He  leaned 
back  for  a  moment  with  lowered  eyelids,  so 
as  the  better  to  drink  in  the  melody  of  it  all, 
so  as  the  better  to  feel  the  rousing  embrace  of 
this  sea  whose  dancing  waters  he  was  cleaving 
—on  and  onward.  With  the  evening  his 
former  exultation  had  returned.  At  this  festive 
hour  illusion  and  fancy  came  closer,  played 
their  parts  with  fuller  voice  and  eyes  more 


148          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 


eloquent,  warmed  by  the  uncertain  light,  the 
Dncoming  dusk. 

Their  dinner  was  rather  ideal  than  real. 
[n  the  place  of  Hutchinson  sat  this  woman 
whose  every  word  was  quick  and  tingling, 
aglow  with  music;  whose  person  was  com- 
posed of  so  subtle  a  compounding  of  flesh 
and  spirit  as  to  have  escaped  the  material. 
Merceron,  radiant,  lived  with  every  nerve — 
and,  womanlike,  she  reflected  his  ecstasy, 
joyed  with  him  in  all  the  fulness  of  this  new 
existence. 

"  When  were  you  born  ?  "  she  had  asked, 
wondering  at  his  delight,  "  and  where  ?  " 

"  In  Piccadilly,  last  night,  when  we  met." 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  believe  you,"  she 
replied;  "  but  what  happened  before  ?  " 

"There  was  no  before." 

"You  have  told  me  nothing  of  that,"  she 
urged. 


Arrived.  149 

"Like  Minerva,  I  sprang  fully  armed  out  of 
the  brow  of  Jove !  "  he  laughed  back,  "  and 
before " 

"  You  made  his  august  head  ache  ?  " 

"  Rather,  my  own." 

"  You  worked  ?  " 

"  Pursued  a  phantom,  had  ambitions,  and 
now,"  he  lingered  on  her  eyes,  "  it  is  all 
changed,"  he  finished  slowly. 

"  What  were  you  doing  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"  Mistaking  a  duckpond  for  the  ocean,  a 
backwater  for  the  river  !  " 

"  Backwaters  are  nice,"  mused  her  ladyship ; 
"  one  is  undisturbed,  and  there  is  usually  shade 
and  cushions." 

"  I  was  undisturbed  and  there  were  cushions 
— but  I  was  alone." 

"  So  are  most  of  us,"  she  sighed. 

"  There  were  no  problems,"  he  returned, 
"  only  work — and  such  empty  work  !  And  I 


150  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

growing  old  all  the  time,  without  ever  havihg 
known  you ! " 

She  could  not  doubt  his  sincerity  as  his 
words  flashed  across — its  sheer  strength  was 
drawing  her  to  his  side.  She  felt  her  weakness, 
and  her  head  fought  with  her  heart. 

"  You  would  make  an  ardent  lover,"  she 
lightly  replied;  "I  shall  have  to  introduce  you 
to  some  nice  girls." 

"After  knowing  you  !  "  he  retorted. 

"  I  said  'nice  girls,' "  answered  the  Countess. 

"Lady  Mays?"  he  asked  glibly;  and  they 
both  laughed. 

"  You  are  killing !  "  she  interspersed. 

"  Rather,  the  victim." 

"Poor  boy— only  a  day  old,  and  you  dare 
attack!" 

"  You  are  mocking  my  inexperience  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  In  self-  defence — in  self- 
defence  1"  said  her  head  to  her  heart* 


Arrived.  151 

"  You  mistake  me,"  he  continued :  "  is  not 
every  face  an  open  book  to  those  who  read  ? — 
and  I  have  lived  in  London  I " 

"  Theory — bald  theory !  "  she  returned. 

"  The  theorist  is  at  least  disinterested ! " 

"  But  uninteresting,"  she  drawled  back:  "  he 
lacks  the  very  weakness  that  makes  experience 
strong." 

"Humanity?"  asked  Merceron.  "I  am 
human  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  and  Merceron  was  left 
facing  a  blank  wall — the  position  of  the  theorist. 
He  said  so. 

"  I  am  on  the  other  side,"  she  tossed  back. 

"  I  am  climbing." 

"  I  am  years  ahead — you  cannot  even  see 
me,"  she  crowed. 

"  Inspiration  has  placed  me  at  your  side ! " 

She  shook  her  head  dubiously.  "Wait — I 
am  out  of  breath."  Then  again,  "Wait!" — 


152  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

this  time  to  herself;  for  her  heart  beat  rapidly, 
and  she  knew  its  tenor.  Some  of  the  roses 
that  he  had  brought  were  in  her  corsage.  She 
hid  her  face  in  them. 

Merceron  ordered  coffee. 

"Would  you  like  to  hear  an  act  or  two  of 
Siegfried  ? "  she  asked,  as  he  lit  a  cigarette. 
"  I  have  a  box,  you  know." 

"  It  would  be  rather  jolly." 

The  carriage  had  waited,  and  was  dismissed 
at  Covent  Garden  with  orders  for  a  later  hour ; 
and  again  Merceron  found  himself  an  integral 
part  of  what  last  night  had  been  but  panoramic. 

Mrs.  Hodgson  rose  as  they  entered  the  box, 
and  the  Countess  sat  down  between  her  and 
Harvey. 

The  dragon  was  in  its  death  throes  when  they 
arrived,  a  most  plaintive  worm.  They  laughed 
at  it.  But  their  chatter  ceased  when  the  note 
of  the  Waldvogel  smote  their  hearts  with  its 


Arnved.  153 

ethereal  sweetness.  Visitors  broke  the  spell  that 
had  crept  over  them.  The  lights  were  raised, 
before  them  the  curtain.  In  the  tier  below 
and  opposite  they  could  see  the  Marchioness  of 
Stoke  and  Lady  May.  The  Marquis  was  eating 
sandwiches,  with  the  score  open  in  front  of 
him.  Merceron  admired  his  enthusiasm. 

"  Shall  we  stay  for  the  end  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Grasmere  as  the  conductor  stepped  into  his 
place  for  the  third  act. 

Harvey  was  more  than  willing.  "  Listening 
is  the  wiser  part,"  he  murmured,  more  to 
himself  than  to  her.  Some  fugitive  thread  of 
his  old  ambitions  had  tugged  at  his  heart,  and 
he  had  broken  this  last  strand. 

The  performance  was  over  at  last.  Brunn- 
hilde  had  surrendered,  had  relinquished  her 
divinity  for  terrestrial  love.  The  eyes  in  the 
box  met  with  more  than  common  under- 
standing. 


154  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Brave  old  world !  "  said  Lady  Grasmere, 
"  I  'd  sooner  be  there  than  in  the  Royal  box !  " 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  dragons  ?  "  asked 
Merceron,  smiling  into  the  lovely  face. 

"Is  not  the  Marchioness  below?"  she  asked; 
and  Mrs.  Hodgson  laughed  reproval. 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  said  Harvey.  "  And  yet 
the  present  has  its  moments,"  he  added, 
bending  over  her  with  opera-cloak  in  hands 
that  testified. 

Together  they  went  out  into  the  vestibule 
where  Hutchinson  and  he  had  stood  the 
night  before.  Now  he  was  looking  for  Lady 
Grasmere's  man.  The  world  had  undergone 
considerable  change  during  the  intervening 
hours — belonged  to  him  at  last,  as  he  to  it. 
He  was  no  longer  a  spectator,  a  sightseer,  no 
longer  aloof;  he  had  thrown  in  his  stake  with 
the  rest,  and  the  game  prospered. 

He  put  the  ladies  into  their  carriage. 


Arrived.  155 

"  I  am  going  on  to  Gatint  House  and  the 
Faucits,"  said  the  Countess ;  "  it  will  be  dull, 
so  I  'm  not  going  to  take  you — good-night  I " 

"  Till  to-morrow,"  said  he. 

She  was  off — a  wave  of  a  dainty  hand,  and 
he  was  alone. 

Merceron  walked  home  that  night.  The 
new  life  was  greater  than  its  promise. 


BOOK     II 


WITHIN. 


CHAPTER     I. 

TRANSITION. 

summer  had  gone  by,  autumn  had 
merged  into  winter,  and  now  some  faint 
signs  of  returning  foliage  showed  on  tree  and 
hedge  as  Harvey  Merceron  progressed  home- 
wards from  Dover.  Eight  months  had  elapsed 
since  last  we  saw  him,  handing  the  Countess 
of  Grasmere  and  Mrs.  Hodgson  into  their 
carriage  after  the  curtain  had  fallen  upon  the 
third  act  of  Siegfried.  Eight  months  had 
passed  since  that  eventful  morning  whereon 
Harvey  Merceron  had  put  Art  aside,  resolved 
to  play  no  more  for  the  dancers  but  himself 
to  dance — he  who  '  had  ten  times  more  music 
in  him  than  all  the  other  dancers  together ! ' 

159 


160          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

It  is   doubtful  whether  either   Sopwith    or 
even  Hutchinson  would,  at  a  first  glance,  have 
recognised  in  the  young  gentleman  of  fashion 
who  had  just  landed  at  the  Admiralty  Pier  the 
Harvey  Merceron  of  a  year  ago;  as,  perfectly 
dressed,  he  chose  a  first-class  carriage  and  a 
cigar   as  though   the  whole    business    of   his 
life  had  consisted  in  similar  selections.     The 
musician  had  disappeared  in  the  man  of  leisure, 
and  only  the   too  thoughtful  eyes,  set  some- 
what incongruously  amid  more  placid  features, 
betokened   the    youthful    enthusiast   who,   for 
three     long,    arduous     years,     had     grappled 
doggedly  with   the   composition   of   Isabella — 
now,  alas,  an  episode  almost  unsubstantial,  oi 
such  stuff  as  those  fugitive  incidents  of  child- 
hood that  we  turn  back  to  and  smile  upon  in 
warm  moments  of  reminiscence.     Isabella,  her 
making   and  her  sensational   exit,  were  alike 
relegated  to  this  same  shadowy  background. 


Transition.  161 


Merceron,  true  to  his  resolve,  had  conquered 
all  impulse  of  curiosity,  of  ownership,  had 
dropped  the  clue  which  Hutchinson  had  placed 
within  his  hands.  The  affair  of  Isabella's  dis- 
appearance was  no  longer  his.  He  was  no 
musician,  therefore  he  had  composed  no  opera, 
therefore  no  opera  of  his  could  have  been 
stolen.  That  Isabella  had  passed  out  of  his 
life — were  she  burnt  or  the  white  elephant  of 
an  unknown  thief,  it  mattered  little  which — 
had  been  the  one  consideration.  .  .  .  And 
now  eight  months  had  closed  upon  her,  had 
passed,  lightning-like,  varied,  in  an  increasing 
succession  of  new  scenes,  new  faces,  and 
new  experiences ;  more  filled  with  the  Life 
for  which  he  had  thirsted  than  all  foregoing 
years. 

The  old  quiet  of  his  aloofness  in  Down 
Street,  with  Sopwith  for  sole  distraction,  music 

as  sole  topic,  had  ceased.     Of  Down  Street  he 
ii 


1 62  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmcre. 

had  caught  but  fugitive  glimpses,  of  Sopwith 
he  had  heard  nothing  save  that  his  opera  was 
making  progress.  He  had  had  no  time  for 
further  contact  with  his  old  surroundings ; 
indeed  he  hardly  wished  for  more  than  this. 
His  life  had  been  full,  full  to  overflowing,  as 
things  were.  A  breathless  fortnight  in  London 
had  succeeded  upon  the  masked  ball  and  its 
ensuing  presentations.  An  easy-going  swarm 
of  butterflies,  who  demanded  of  man  nothing 
more  than  that  he  should  be  well-dressed, 
cleanly,  and  fitly  introduced,  of  agreeable 
aspect  and  bearing,  had  welcomed  friend 
Merceron  to  common  flights. 

The  London  season  over,  there  had  followed 
the  Warings*  Goodwood  party;  a  full  house 
and  an  excited  crowd  all  intent  on  winners. 
By  day,  the  Downs,  a  gay  mob  picnicing  in 
the  open,  blazing  sunshine  and  deep  blue 
skies,  the  hubbub  of  the  ring,  interrupted 


Transition.  163 

by  the  mad  rush,  the  break-neck  scramble  of 
straining  horseflesh  ;  by  night,  the  same 
company  discussing  the  day's  hazards,  the 
flower-like  toilettes  of  the  women  as  they 
dined  under  the  shaded  candles,  a  stroll  in 
the  grounds,  now  with  a  brother  cigar,  genial 
with  perfect  health  and  unimpaired  digestive 
organs,  or  else  Lady  Grasmere,  the  hand 
on  his  arm  more  eloquent  than  speech,  to 
the  accompaniment  of  song  and  music  from 
open  drawing-room  windows. 

Only  once  had  the  Countess  appeared  con- 
trite, questioned  the  impulse  which  had  led 
her  to  launch  her  companion  upon  this 
blissful  sea. 

"  You  have  never  told  me  what  you  think  of 
me  for  it  all,"  she  had  asked,  almost  shame- 
facedly, "  of  my  behaviour  ?  " 

"I  have  left  off  thinking,"  Harvey  had 
decisively  replied,  "and  my  actions  are  trans- 


164  An  Opera  &  Lady  Gtasmere. 

parent," — with  a  gentle  pressure  of   his  arm 
upon  her  hand. 

"  You  should  despise  rne,  should  you  not  ?  ' 
she  had  questioned.  smiHng. 

"  Myself— if  anybody  ?  " 

"  A  very  Christian  view." 

"  But  I  am  proud — er,  devilish  proud  !  " 

She  dropped  him  a  curtsey  upon  the  spot. 

From  Goodwood,  Harvey  had  gone  on  to 
Lady  Grasmere's  place  ki  Kent,  to  join  in  the 
robuster  pleasures  of  the  Canterbury  week. 
Here  was  another  houseful  of  visitors :  and  the 
days  sped  fast  in  the  cricket  field,  where  the 
whole  county  had  assembled  to  encourage  its 
champions ;  dispensing  bounteous  hospitality 
from  gaily  decorated  tents,  and  turning  out  of 
nights  for  a  full  succession  of  concerts,  dances, 
and  theatricals. 

He  had  gone  abroad  after  these  festivities,  to 
Ostend,  up  the  Rhine,  gradually  drifting  to 


Transition.  165 


Nuremberg  on  his  way  to  Bayreuth,  where  he 
had  promised  to  join  the  Countess  and  Sir 
Horace  and  Lady  Waring.  The  Marquis  of 
Stoke  was  also  of  their  party.  He  was  to 
meet  Lady  May  and  the  Marchioness  later 
on,  at  Venice.  They  were  yachting  in  the 
Mediterranean ;  and,  meanwhile,  the  Marquis 
was  free  to  pursue  his  beloved  Wagner 
without  fear  of  disorganising  the  family 
dining  arrangements,  and  with  no  special 
necessity  for  munching  ham  sandwiches 
between  the  acts. 

It  was  Lady  Grasmere  who  had  drawn 
Merceron  to  Bayreuth — his  second  visit,  by- 
the-by.  Both  she  and  Lady  Horace  were 
more  than  ordinarily  devoted  to  music,  dis- 
played even  a  technical  understanding  of 
harmony  and  orchestration  that  caused  Harvey 
considerable  surprise.  More  often  than  not 
they  sat  beside  him  in  the  long  intervals 


1 66  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

between  act  and  act,  discussing  an  open  score 
and  following  with  apparent  ease  intricate 
combinations,  subtle  manipulations  of  themes 
and  counter -themes.  Harvey  surmised  a 
deal  of  unsuspected  earnestness  behind  such 
facility. 

He,  for  his  part,  was  content  to  listen, 
attempted  neither  analysis  nor  synthesis, 
tabooed  even  that  perpetual  and  ubiquitous 
tri-syllable — Leit-motif. 

Once,  indeed,  he  had  been  surprised  into 
helping  the  ladies  over  a  peculiarly  difficult 
passage,  a  jumble  of  apparently  discordant 
discords  which  even  the  Marquis  could  not 
adequately  interpret. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  knew  so  much  about 
it,"  said  Lady  Horace,  when  Harvey 
finished.  The  Countess  was  silently  aston- 
ished; even  his  careless  disclaimer  hardly 
contented  her. 


Transition.  167 


"Oh,  a  musical  fellow  told  me,"  he  had 
replied.  Nor  was  the  response  altogether 
fiction,  albeit  the  "  musical  fellow "  was  none 
other  than  his  own  discarded  self. 

Not  even  to  Lady  Grasmere  had  he  spoken 
of  his  old  ambitions.  His  school  and  Oxford 
she  knew  about,  also  that  his  mother  and 
sisters  lived  in  a  biggish  house  in  Hertford- 
shire, and  that  they  were  spending  the  summer 
in  Switzerland.  He  had  also  spoken  of 
Sopwith,  but  not  as  of  a  fellow,  one  with 
whom  he  had  shared  a  common  pursuit,  a 
common  art ;  merely  as  a  musical  friend  who 
was  working  upon  an  .  opera  dealing  with 
Francesca  of  Rimini. 

The  Countess  knew  some  of  .his  songs. 
"  Feeble — very  feeble,"  was  her  description 
of  them. 

"  Pot-boilers,  I  believe,"  said  Harvey  ;  "  but 
the  opera's  serious.  I  suggested  Francesca; 


1 68  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

it 's  rather  a  good  subject,  don't  you  think 
so?" 

The  Countess  agreed,  after  which  both 
Sopwith  and  his  doings  were  laid  aside  in 
favour  of  matters  more  personal  and  pressing. 

From  Bayreuth  the  party  had  descended 
into  the  Tyrol,  had  separated  there  to  meet 
once  more  upon  the  Warings'  grouse-moor. 
Harvey  went  up  to  Scotland  with  the  rest, 
and,  at  the  close  of  his  visit,  recrossed  the 
Channel,  Italy  his  new  destination.  There  he 
again  encountered  the  Marquis,  this  time  ac- 
companied by  Lady  Stoke  and  their  daughter, 
also  a  dozen  other  of  his  new  acquaintances, 
bent  on  escaping  the  rigours  of  the  frozen 
North. 

The  Marquis  gave  Harvey  an  unexpectedly 
warm  welcome,  had  evidently  taken  a  great 
liking  to  him  during  their  week  at  Bayreuth, 
and  was  doubtless  glad  to  have  captured 


Transition.  169 

someone  capable  of  sharing  in  the  musical 
speculations  which  he  was  constantly  formulat- 
ing, asserting  with  all  the  assurance  and 
dogmatism  of  the  amateur.  He  was,  as 
Harvey  soon  discovered,  an  amiable  bore,  with 
lofty  ideals,  whose  expression,  however,  he  left 
to  poorer  men. 

Merceron  was  not  ill-pleased  at  this  meeting 
and  its  entailments ;  for  the  Marchioness  could 
be  very  gracious,  knew,  besides,  all  the  best 
people,  and  even  Lady  May,  following  in  the 
wake  of  her  father,  had  grown  quite  respectful. 
It  was  on  the  Stoke  yacht  that  Harvey  made 
the  voyage  from  .Naples  to  Alexandria;  arriving 
in  Cairo  just  in  time  to  spend  Christmas  with 
Lady  Grasmere,  her  nephew,  the  present  Earl, 
and  Lady  Mountjoy,  his  mother. 

These  months  sped  rapidly  enough,  a  con- 
stant flight  of  novel  experience  and  emotion, 
insight,  action  and  reaction,  amid  changing 


170  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

soil,  faces,  races,  and  scenery ;  a  movement 
so  sustained,  varied,  coloured,  material  and 
abstract,  that  Merceron  was  left  no  oppor- 
tunity for  weariness — nor  overlong  meditations 
either.  The  child  within  him,  the  instinct 
that  had  first  prompted  him  to  intrude  at 
Stoke  House,  that  had  so  disarmed  the 
Countess  and  then  irresistibly  attracted  her, 
this  joyous  ingenuousness  of  his  remained 
almost  intact,  winning  for  him  even  more 
friends  than  his  evident  means  and  handsome 
presence.  Women  were  especially  delighted 
with  him ;  he  had  individuality  and  that  with- 
out aggressive  advertisement..  Several  of  them 
said  as  much,  with  more  to  follow ;  but  Lady 
Grasmere  apart,  Harvey  was  in  no  mood  to 
seek  alliances. 

Towards  the  Countess,  he  was  ever  the 
same  devoted  cavalier;  although  the  ardour 
of  his  first  attack  had  abated  with  a  conviction 


Transition.  171 


of  the  security  of  his  position,  a  recognition 
of  the  wisdom  of  her  parryings.  She  was 
evidently  widow  enough  to  foresee  the  danger 
of  such  breathless  carryings  by  assault.  Now 
he  was  steadily  gaining  her  confidence  as  well 
as  her  love,  a  quieter  process,  yet  one  recom- 
mended by  all  praise-worthy  counsel. 

"You  are  not  fit  to  be  trusted  out  alone," 
she  had  once  laughingly  declared.  "  Lady 
Horace,  please  take  him  away — he  is  turning 
my  head."  This,  during  the  first  week  of 
their  friendship. 

Lady  Horace  had  played  lightning-conductor 
with  some  success ;  and  Merceron,  gathering 
the  "  true  word  "  behind  the  jest,  had  hence- 
forth resolved  to  move  by  the  measure  of  their 
surroundings.  So  that  at  Bayreuth,  in  Scot- 
land, and  later  in  Egypt  and  at  Cannes,  a 
softer  mood  had  prevailed,  and  one  more  in 
unison  with  the  tempo  of  the  rest  of  life. 


172  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

From  the  Riviera  Merceron  had  gone  to 
Paris,  and  the  Countess  home  to  her  house 
in  Kent.  Now  Harvey  too  was  on  English 
soil;  a  week  with  his  people  in  Hertfordshire, 
and  he  would  join  a  party  that  Lady  Grasmere 
was  entertaining  over  Easter. 


CHAPTER     II. 

POSTMEN. 

'T^HE  Countess  and  Lady  Horace  were  at 
-^  the  station  when  Harvey  arrived  from 
Charing  Cross,  and  the  three  walked  over  to 
the  house  together,  leaving  Hancock  to  look 
after  the  baggage. 

"  There 's  not  much  peace  now ;  and  we 
used  to  be  that  quiet ! "  said  Hancock  to  the  man 
who  had  driven  over  to  assist  him,  after  sundry 
courteous  inquiries  anent  the  health  and  well- 
being  of  various  members  of  the  Grasmere 
household. 

"A  little  society  does  one  good ;  and  changes 
is  always  welcome,"  returned  the  other,  cheer- 
fully. "  You  're  not  a  rover,  Mr.  Hancock  ?  " 

173 


174  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  '  There  's  no  place  like  home '  is  my  motto  ; 
and  I  stick  to  it,"  was  Hancock's  emphatic 
answer. 

"Well,  you'll  be  treated  first-class  down 
here ;  and  though  I  says  it  as  shouldn't,  we  're 
a  most  sociable  lot,"  modestly  observed  the 
other. 

"  Never  met  a  more  sociable,"  Hancock 
politely  responded.  "  When  I  was  here  last 
summer,  I  said  to  the  cook,  I  said,  '  I  've  a 
good  mind  to  stay  here,  a  very  good  mind ' ; 
and  she  says,  '  Go  along,  Mr.  Hancock,  I  'm  a 
married  woman  ! ' "  Here  Harvey's  retainer 
indulged  in  a  little  dignified  laughter. 

"  Cooks  is  independent,"  said  the  other, 
meditatively  ;  "they  earns  good  wages." 

" '  But  you  may  stay  here  all  the  same,' 
was  what  she  said  as  well,"  resumed 
Hancock. 

"  Think  it  likely  ?  "  asked  the  other. 


Postmen.  175 

"  You  're  on  the  spot,"  returned  Hancock, 
evasively. 

"  Well,  they  do  say  it  '11  either  be  him  or 
Captin  Mills." 

Here  the  conversation  assumed  a  character 
so  confidential  as  to  merit  a  privacy  which  we 
hasten  to  respect. 

The  party  that  Lady  Grasmere  was  enter- 
taining over  Easter  was,  relatively  speaking,  a 
very  quiet  one;  just  a  few  friends  whom  she 
had  gathered  together  until  the  London  season 
should  rejoin  them  all  in  town.  The  Warings 
were  there  of  course ;  for,  as  Merceron  had  long 
since  discovered,  Lady  Horace  and  his  hostess 
were  friends  of  more  than  common  devotion. 

"  Di  Waring 's  one  of  the  few  women  I  'd 
sooner  talk  to  than  a  man,"  the  latter  had 
once  confided  to  Harvey;  "her  notions  are 
masculine,  her  conclusions  feminine,  and  her 
prejudices  neuter." 


176  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"The  ideal  woman?"  enquired  Harvey. 

"The  ideal  woman's  woman,"  replied  Lady 
Grasmere. 

Now  the  trio  was  strolling  down  the  white 
road  that  led  to  the  lodge  gates. 

"  The  Marquis  and  Lady  May  are  here,  but 
you  mustn't  ask  after  the  Marchioness,"  Lady 
Grasmere  was  explaining ;  "she's  staying  with 
her  sister,  and  the  sister  and  the  old  gentleman 
don't  speak.  One  of  them  jilted  the  other 
forty  years  ago — I  don't  know  which  one." 

"The  Marquis,  of  course,"  interrupted  Lady 
Horace ;  "  do  you  think  a  woman  would  sulk 
for  half  a  century  !  Just  imagine,  years 
and  years  before  we  were  born  these  two 
people," — she  continued,  romancing  ;  "  they 
ought  to  be  put  in  the  British  Museum — under 
glass !  " 

"  Lady  May  says  that  you  were  awfully  nice 
in  Italy,  but  that  you  scorned  Guido  and  Carlo 


Postmen.  177 

Do'ci,"    said    the   Countess;    "you    shouldn't 
have  done  that." 

"  Her  pets,  and  '  so  sweet !  '  "  mimicked 
Lady  Horace. 

"  Couldn't  help  it  after  Bayreuth  and  this 
person,"  said  Merceron.  "  I  left  Lady  Horace 
without  an  illusion,"  he  declared,  laughing. 

"  Rude  man,  isn't  he  ? "  demanded  the 
baronet's  wife. 

Captain  Mills  was  on  the  lawn,  amusing  him- 
self with  a  golf  club  and  an  imaginary  ball. 
Sir  Horace  and  Lady  May  were  examining  a 
book  of  artificial  flies;  and,  indoors,  the  Marquis 
was  deep  in  the  Times. 

"  Your  friend  Sopwith's  opera,  Francesca  of 
Rimini,  is  going  to  be  put  on  this  season — a 
British  composer  at  last !  "  said  the  Marquis  as 
he  shook  Harvey's  hand. 

"Is  it?  I  must  write  and  congratulate  him — 
haven't  seen  Sopwith  for  months ;  he 's  been 

12 


178          An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

pretty  quick  though,  he  had  only  just  begun  it 
when  I  last  saw  him." 

"  We  '11  all  have  to  go  and  cheer,"  proposed 
Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Rather !  "  from  Merceron  ;  and  he  went  to 
the  library  and  wrote  Sopwith  a  congratulatory 
note  forthwith,  promising  him  an  early  visit, 
and  apologising  for  having  done  so  little  to 
maintain  their  friendship.  "  But  I  've  cut 
music,  as  you  know,"  he  concluded  ;  and  con- 
tinuing, "  I  shall  see  you  on  the  first  night,  if 
not  before.  I  suppose  you  must  be  terribly 
busy." 

Later  on,  at  dinner,  the  conversation  again 
drifted  towards  Sopwith's  opera.  Captain 
Mills  had  met  the  composer. 

"A  long-haired  chap  with  glasses,  isn't  he  ?  " 
the  soldier  asked  of  Merceron. 

"  He  wasn't  when  I  last  saw  him,  but 
Sopwith's  capable  of  much,"  replied  Harvey, 


Postmen.  179 

smiling  as   he   pictured   this  new   composer's 
evident  concessions  to  the  situation. 

"  Do  you  think  he  let  it  grow  on  purpose?  ' 
asked  Lady  Horace. 

"Imagine  a  musician  without  long  hair!' 
exclaimed  Lady  -Grasmere,  "nobody  would 
believe  in  him — an  English  name  is  bad 
enough !  " 

"  Supposing  Mr.  Merceron  were  to  write  an 
opera,  do  you  think  he  'd  let  his  hair  grow  ?  " 
demanded  Lady  Horace,  with  more  mischief, 
perhaps,  than  she  had  intended,  "  or  Captain 
Mills  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  letting  one's  hair  grow  is 
quite  sufficient  occupation,  without  throwing  in 
an  opera,"  returned  Harvey  unruffled. 

"  I  think  the  hair 's  about  as  far  as  I  'd 
get,"  drawled  Captain  Mills. 

"  Your  friend  Mr.  Sopwith  would  probably 
enjoy  this  discussion.  He'd  doubtless  feel 


180  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

amply  repaid  for  I  don't  know  how  many  months' 
hard  labour  1 "  commented  Lady  Grasmere, 
severely  sarcastic. 

"You  young  people  have  not  the  respect  for 
Art  that  was  common  in  my  time — it 's  these 
Americans !  "  observed  the  Marquis.  He  had 
a  comfortable  practice  of  holding  "  these 
Americans "  responsible  for  every  current 
irreverence. 

Merceron's  flippancies  on  this  occasion  did 
not,  however,  affect  the  old  gentleman's 
estimate  of  his  abilities,  for,  only  the  next 
morning,  the  Marquis  reiterated  an  interest  in 
their  proper  employment. 

"  You  should  go  into  Parliament,"  he  said  to 
Harvey,  as  they  chatted  after  breakfast ;  "  a 
young  man  of  your  gifts  is  wasted,  sir, 
positively  wasted,  unless  he  settles  down  to 
responsible  duties." 

Instead  of  Parliament,  however,    Merceron 


Postmen.  181 

went  off  to  a  neighbouring  trout- stream  with 
the  Warings,  and  spent  the  greater  part  of  an 
afternoon  with  Lady  May,  looking  out  quota- 
tions for  some  competition  formulated  by  that 
damsel's  favourite  organ,  The  British  Matron. 

Very  peaceful  were  these  few  days,  their 
restfulness  doubly  enhanced  by  the  intimacy  of 
the  little  band.  Of  Lady  Grasmere's  society, 
Harvey  had  more  than  his  fair  share.  She 
was  an  even  more  attractive  woman  in  this 
quiet  country  home  of  hers  than  in  the  more 
fashionable  localities  they  had  frequented.  In 
the  white  blouses  and  skirts,  faultlessly  cut, 
that  she  wore  in  the  daytime,  she  would  walk 
lightly  at  his  side,  humanising  the  landscape. 
The  easy  grace  which  marked  her  out-door 
movements  reminded  him  frequently  of  Diana. 
More  regal,  yet  equally  simple,  were  her  evening 

r 

gowns.  Lady  Horace's  admiration  of  her  was 
outspoken,  even  audacious. 


182  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  I  know  you  're  as  much  in  love  with  her  as 
I  am,"  she  said  one  evening  to  Harvey. 

"  More,"  he  replied. 

"  And  you  are  content  ?  " 

"Quite." 

"  I  envy  you  your  wisdom — even  though  it 's 
unwise." 

"  She  might  marry  ?  "  he  asked,  half-interested. 

"  She  will  marry,"  asserted  Lady  Horace. 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  soothingly  returned. 

"  Wretch  !  "  said  Lady  Horace,  laughing  at 
him.  "  You  've  never  told  me  where  you  went 
to  school,"  she  added,  rallying ;  "  I  want  to  send 
my  boy  there.  Woman  must  have  been  part 
of  the  curriculum — a  subject  so  necessary,  yet 
they  never  teach  it !  " 

"  It  is  a  gift,"  Harvey  gravely  explained ; 
"the  connoisseur  is  born  and  not  made — 

nascitur  non  fit : 

•  For  tke  poet  was  man  and  woman  and  child,' 


Postmen.  183 

as  Bret  Harte  used  to  say,"  he  somewhat 
irrelevantly  added. 

Lady  Horace  shook  her  head. 

"  You  're  in  the  depths,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
am  getting  out  of  mine." 

"  You  should  learn  to  swim,  now 
there  's  that  trout-stream,"  he  smilingly 
suggested. 

"  Girls,  nowadays,  must  have  a  hard  time 
talking  to  you  men  ?  "  she  questioned* 

"  I  have  never  met  any." 

She  left  him  unregenerate,  and  rejoined  Sir 
Horace. 

Harvey  contemplated  the  couple  from  his 
chair. 

"  That  woman  will  make  me  think,  if  I  only 
let  her,"  he  reflected.  "  I  shall  have  to  drag 
Mills  in  and  make  him  bring  his  concertina  " — 
alluding  to  one  of  the  Captain's  most  popular 
accomplishments. 


184  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 


Lady  May  was  seated  amid  a  group  of  poets, 
seeking  more  quotations. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  find  some  for  me  ?  "  she  said 
as  Harvey  went  by ;  "  I  've  gone  through  five 
things  of  Byron  to-day  and  only  found  eight." 

"  Poor  Byron  !  "  exclaimed  Harvey. 

"  Poor  me,"  corrected  Lady  May. 

Captain  Mills  and  the  Marquis  were  playing 
billiards,  and  Lady  Grasmere  was  marking  the 
game. 

"  Come  to  relieve  me  ?  "  she  asked  as  Harvey 
entered. 

He  took  her  place  and  later  on  a  cue,  and 
then  he  and  Captain  Mills  talked  India  till 
bedtime. 

Lady  Grasmere  was  scribbling  notes  when 
they  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  The 
others  had  all  retired.  The  soldier  said  "  Good- 
night," and  Harvey  sat  down  in  a  chair  and 
watched  the  Countess  as  she  wrote. 


Postmen.  185 

The  thoughtful  face  and  ruddy  hair,  illumined 
by  the  candles  at  her  side,  made  a  delicious 
picture. 

At  last  she  had  finished. 

"  I  rather  wanted  these  to  go  to-night,"  she 
said,  biting  her  quill,  "and  the  servants  have 
all  gone  to  bed." 

"  Shall  I  do  postman  and  run  down  to  the 
village  with  them  ?  "  asked  Harvey. 

Outside,  the  sky  was  clear,  the  air  fresh  with 
the  health  of  springtime.  She  had  opened 
the  French  windows. 

"  I  '11  come  too,"  she  said.  "  You  're  not 
afraid  of  the  churchyard  ?  " 

She  found  a  hat  and  a  cape  in  the  hall,  and 
they  started  off  together  across  the  lawn. 


CHAPTER     III. 

LIFE,      AND      DEATH. 

walk  from  the  house  to  the  post  office 
*-  was  barely  a  matter  of  ten  minutes. 
When  Lady  Grasmere  and  Harvey  came  out 
at  the  lodge  gates  they  had  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  of  roadway  to  traverse  before  they 
reached  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  rectory- 
field  to  the  churchyard ;  another  hundred 
yards  or  so,  and  they  would  pass  the  pond 
that  marked  the  near  end  of  the  village 
street. 

It  was  close  on  midnight  when  they  set  out. 
The  Countess  had  taken  Harvey's  arm,  ahead 
ran  the  dim  roadway,  and  the  darkness  closed 
in  on  them  as  they  trod,  cutting  them  off  the 


Life,  and  Death.  187 

more  and  more  from  the   consciousness  of  a 
gregarious  world. 

Never  before  had  Lady  Grasmere  seemed  so 
near  to  Merceron  as  on  this  night.  They  had 
often  been  together  at  a  similar  hour:  in  Cairo, 
under  the  heavy  stars;  at  Cannes,  watching 
the  moonlight  tremble  on  the  idle  waves.  But 
these  Southern  nights  held  none  of  the  intimacy 
of  the  present  excursion.  They  had  been  too 
exotic — were  almost  part  of  a  routine,  like  the 
table  d'hdte  and  the  after-dinner  band;  they 
lacked  all  familiar  appeal,  were  rather  a 
spectacle  than  an  atmosphere.  To-night, 
this  darkness  of  an  English  springtide  was 
Merceron's  own  and  hers ;  no  foreign  savour 
distracted  them  with  a  heaven  and  an  earth, 
so  multiplied  by  art  and  convention  as  to 
partake  of  the  theatric. 

As  they  stepped  along  the  world  seemed  to 
have   dwindled   to  some   desert   island  whert 


i88  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

only  they  two  stirred,  a  personal  belonging; 
every  clod  of  soil,  every  fold  of  the  darkness, 
their  very  own.  Thought  made  an  epic  of  each 
minute,  so  close  were  they,  so  eloquent  the 
night!  The  silent  stars  and  the  mysterious 
distances  unshrouded  nocturnes  rarer  than  any 
known  of  musician. 

Through  Harvey's  heart  these  melodies 
whispered  and  melted,  equally  elusive,  equally 
vague,  deep  as  the  night. 

The  dun  outline  of  a  horse  showed,  black  on 
black,  as  they  struck  across  the  footpath 
through  the  rectory-field ;  the  vicarage  was  in 
darkness.  Around  them  they  could  hear  the 
persistent  munch  of  browsing  sheep. 

The  churchyard  was  heavily  silent,  the 
shadowy  building  in  its  centre  singularly  im- 
pressive. As  they  entered  at  the  little  swing- 
gate  Harvey  felt  the  arm  within  his  own  tighten. 
He  returned  the  pressure,  and  they  passed 


Life,  and,  Death.  189 

down  this  place  of  modest  sepulture  without 
word,  heart  and  brain  the  busier  for  unin- 
terruption. 

"  You  were  thinking  of  Gray  and  the 
Elegy  ? "  she  whispered  as  they  skirted  the 
pond. 

"  Yes — and  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

But  a  single  light  burned  in  the  sleeping 
village,  illuminating  a  low  window  in  the 
upstairs  room  of  a  cottage. 

"  Poor  Tom  Martin  !  Doctor  Small  says  he 's 
dying — and  his  mother's  such  a  dear.  The 
boy 's  all  she  has,  too,"  said  Lady  Grasmere  as 
they  passed. 

Harvey's  thoughts  went  back  to  the  church- 
yard. 

They  reached  the  post  office,  and  he 
dropped  the  letters  into  the  box.  The 
object  of  their  adventure  was  accomplished. 


igo  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

They  turned,  walking  more  slowly  than 
before. 

The  letters  were  forgotten,  and  thought,  fully 
freed,  now  centered  entirely  on  the  personal. 
The  village  clock  began  to  strike  the  hour  as 
they  reached  the  churchyard.  Harvey's  hand 
was  on  the  gate.  He  paused  and  waited,  his 
eyes  on  her  face,  white  in  that  darkness,  the 
spirit  looking  out  on  him,  paling  the  night. 
Twelve  !  The  hour  had  passed. 

"  Ghosts  !  "  she  whispered,  with  a  nervous 
little  laugh. 

His  arm  went  round  her. 

"No,  darling — not  yet!" 

It  was,  indeed,  no  ghostly  arm  that  encircled 
her,  no  illusive  shape  that  was  encircled. 

"  I  love  you — I  have  always  loved  you,"  he 
breathed. 

"  And  I "  Her  voice  was  glorious  with 

perfect  happiness. 


"HER    Ul'Tl'RXEI)    KACK    WT    Jl'ST    HEI.OW    MIS    OWN." Page    I  ()  I . 


Life,  and  Death.  191 

Through  the  dark  his  eyes  called  to  her. 
She  raised  her  lips  to  his. 

"  My  queen  .  .  .  My  queen  !  " — his  kisses 
covered  her  face — "you  love  me — you.  love 
me  !  "  Half  in  triumph,  half  questioning,  his 
words  came  to  her. 

"  I  dare  not  say — how  much,"  she  had 
answered. 

Her  height  was  near  to  his,  her  upturned 
face  but  just  below  his  own.  Time  swooned 
as  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  breast  to  breast,  the 
perfume  of  her  hair  invading  him. 

The  half-hour  chimed  on  the  night.  The 
dead  generations  below  the  sod  had  known 
no  love  as  this,  the  barred  church  no  such 
union.  The  village  slept,  wrapped  in  a  stubborn 
torpor,  man  beside  wife,  parent  and  child.  Only 
the  one  light  burned,  in  the  cottage  window 
where  Love  and  Death  were  watching.  And 
here  in  the  churchyard  stood  Love  and  Life. 


IQ2  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmcre. 

The  hour  struck,  a  single  note  that  spoke 
to  them  of  countless  hours,  a  forerunner — so 
young  is  Love  !  A  drop  in  an  ocean  was  this 
hour,  a  blade  of  grass,  a  grain  of  sand ;  and 
they  were  treading  summer  meadows,  golden 
shores  ! 

Tears  stirred  through  Merceron's  heart.  In 
that  hour  he  first  tasted  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  Perfect  Knowledge,  attained  to  the  Open 
Secret — and  Earth  held  no  further  veil.  The 
Past,  with  its  near  horizons,  incomplete 
emotions,  had  dwindled,  then  vanished,  in 
this  newer  light.  At  first  the  old  selves  had 
obtruded,  had  dared  dispute  the  Present — to 
be  found  wanting,  turned  utterly  adrift.  The 
Present  was  built  to  a  larger  scale  !  And  amid 
this  debris,  this  crackling  of  discarded  works, 
Isabella  had  once  more  reappeared,  this  opera 
that  his  unformed  manhood  had  wrought  out 
of  its  inexperience ;  a  tattered  thing,  abortive, 


Life,  and  Death.  193 

and  piteous  in  its  strained  assumption  of 
maturity.  Its  laboured  mewlings,  its  flagrant 
shallovvnesses,  now  smote  him — him  who  knew. 
The  woman  in  his  arms,  the  heart  that  swelled 
to  hers,  knew  love ;  and  love  was  a  fuller,  a 
deeper  melody  .  .  .  Poor  Isabella !  Poor 
everything!  All,  all  was  poor  beside  such 
wealth  ! 

Another  half-hour  chimed.  The  dead  under- 
foot had  not  stirred,  nor  shaken  their  worn 
bones — an  antic  chorus. 

The  village  was  dumb  ;  only  its  dogs 
bayed  aimlessly  at  nothings,  or  a  challenging 
circle  of  cockerels  crowed  from  farmyard  to 
farmyard.  The  light  behind  the  one  yellow 
window-pane  had  vanished.  Perhaps  Life 
had  surrendered  the  dying  man,  had  cast 
its  eye  over  this  still  churchyard,  sure  of 
succession;  while  Love  sobbed  through  the 
dark. 


Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 


"  Home,  darling  —  we  must  go  home,"  they 
whispered  at  last. 

Their  path  was  strewn  with  kisses  ;  the 
April  air  was  warm  as  the  breath  of  June. 

The  lodge  gates  were  reached,  and  they 
passed  down  the  avenue  and  on  to  the  lawn. 
The  low  lights  of  the  drawing-room  glowed 
soft.  They  entered  and  closed  the  French 
windows  with  hands  caressing  hands. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  She  was  once  more 
in  his  arms. 

"Good-night,"  she  whispered;  then, 
holding  him  from  her,  so  as  the  better  to 
see  the  loved  face.  "  This  was  the  ninth 
of  April." 

"I  shall  always  remember." 

"It  will  be  my  next  birthday  —  and  the 
next." 

Her  hands  fell,  and  he  took  them  both  and 
covered  them  with  kisses. 


Life,  and  Death.  195 

"Good -night — good-night,"  he  said. 

These  words,  so  fervently  repeated,  were 
love-vows.  They  followed  him  to  his  room 
as  he  left  her. 

The  whole  world  whispered,  "  Good-night !  " 


CHAPTER      IV. 

A   LITTLE    MUSIC. 

HARVEY  and  Lady  Grasmere  were  left 
standing  alone  on  the  station  platform, 
and  Lady  Horace  was  beaming  down  on  them 
from  a  window  of  the  moving  train. 

The  Countess  fluttered  a  handkerchief. 

"I've  been  very  good,  have  I  not?"  she 
asked.  "  We  've  both  been  very  good  ;  and  yet 
Di  Waring  was  personal,  even  made  me 
blush." 

"  Lady  Horace  is  a  villain,"  returned  Harvey 
with  severity. 

The  train  disappeared  round  a  curve  in  the 
line,  and  Merceron  and  the  Countess  turned. 
The  other  guests  had  left  in  the  morning,  and 


A   Little  Musk.  197 


Harvey  was  to  take  the  last  train,  the  9.46. 
Mrs.  Hodgson  would  arrive  on  the  following 
day,  for  a  lengthy  visit,  here  and  in  London. 

"Nearly  six  hours  to  mine,"  said  Harvey,  as 
they  quitted  the  station ;  "  I  shan't  stay  in 
town  ;  I  shall  go  on  to  my  people's  from  here 
— it  will  kill  the  days." 

"  And  tell  them  ?  "  She  smiled  up  at  him 
as  she  spoke.  Her  smile  had  grown  marvel- 
lously tender  since  that  night.  No  wonder 
that  Lady  Horace  had  noticed  the  change. 

"  About  what  ?  "  he  teased. 

"  About — the  designing  widow-lady  ?  " 

Almost  her  first  direct  reference  was  this  to 
things  anterior,  to  her  marriage;  and  Harvey 
had  of  course  never  broached  the  subject.  He 
knew  that  she  had  been  but  eighteen  on  her 
wedding-day  and  that  she  was  widow  at  twenty. 
Lady  Horace  had  supplied  the  rest,  however : 

"The  Earl  was  a  father  to  her,"  she  had 


An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 


once  told  him,  "a  dear  old  gentleman  —  we 
were  all  so  sorry.  Her  mother  made  the 
match  —  an  old  flame  of  hers,  I  fancy,  —  and 
Gertrude  went  to  church  from  the  school- 
room." 

"  About  the  designing  widow-lady  and  the 
defenceless  orphan  ?  "  Harvey  had  just  replied. 

The  village  looked  on  at  them  as  they  passed, 
forming  a  third,  dropping  curtseys  and  touching 
its  hat.  In  the  cottage  where  the  light  had 
burned  two  nights  ago,  the  blinds  were  drawn. 
They  both  noticed  this  token,  but  neither 
remarked  upon  it.  That  night  was  theirs. 
They  skirted  the  pond,  and  he  met  her  eyes, 
with  his  hand  upon  the  little  swing-gate.  The 
churchyard  lay  before  them,  white  and  green 
in  the  sunlight  —  a  different  place.  The  peaceful 
building  in  the  centre  showed  grey  and  vener- 
able. The  rectory-field  followed,  with  its 
browsing  sheep  and  the  vicar's  mare  nibbling 


A  Little  Music.  199 


contentedly  at  the  low  grass ;  then  the  white 
roadway  with  its  hedges,  tender  with  budding 
.  hawthorn — a  different  place. 

Hancock  had  already  packed  his  master's 
things.  The  few  hours  that  remained  would 
be  undivided. 

They  sipped  their  tea  contentedly  after  they 
came  in.  How  good  it  was  to  be  alone  !  how 
good  even  to  be  silent  thus;  with  the  know- 
ledge that  she  was  in  the  same  room,  that  an 
outstretched  hand  would  meet  hers,  that  he 
was  free  to  look  and  look  and  look,  and  all  the 
while  she  would  be  beside  him. 

"  You  have  never  loved  anyone  else  ?  "  she 
asked,  crossing  their  reverie. 

"  There  was  a  girl  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
we  pretended." 

"  And  since  then  ?  * 

"  Only  you — I  was  waiting  for  you."  He 
answered  her  in  all  sincerity ;  she  represented 


2OO  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

his  "ideal  woman,"  the  being  he  had  half 
formulated,  half  dreamed  on  these  many 
years. 

"  And  I — I  was  waiting  for  you  ;  "  she  re- 
peated his  words  slowly,  lingering  over  each 
one.  Then,  quickening,  "  Do  you  remember," 
she  asked,  "  those  were  almost  the  first  words 
you  spoke  to  me  at  the  Stoke  ball  ?  I  believe 
that's  why  I  liked  you  so  ...  because 
I  ...  I  was  waiting  as  well !  "  She  pressed 
his  hand  as  she  spoke.  Her  voice  was  uncer- 
tain, her  eyes  downcast.  In  that  moment  she 
had  confessed  a  great  deal. 

"  But  I  thought  you  mistook  me  for  Mills  ?  " 

"  Only  half — but  I  was  surprised  when  you 
weren't,"  she  answered,  deliciously  feminine  in 
this  juxtaposition. 

They  walked  till  dinner-time  in  the  cross- 
avenue  that  intersected  the  one  that  ran  from 
the  lawn  to  the  lodge-gates. 


A  Little  Music.  201 


Her  hand  was  on  his  arm — after  all,  in  a 
week  or  two  their  secret  would  be  everybody's. 

Hancock,  from  the  stables,  where  he  was 
pominally  watching  the  operations  of  his  ally 
of  the  week  before,  had  just  ventured  the 
opinion  that  he  and  his  master  would  not  wait 
so  long  before  their  next  visit.  "  It 's  ten  to  one 
against  Mills,  I  fancy,"  he  sagely  concluded. 

"  Five  hundred!  —  not  that  Captain  Mills 
ain't  a  gentleman  as  anybody  would  be  proud 
of;  always  tips  gold,  no  harf-crowns  with  him 
like  that  there  Mar-quis." 

"  Well,  it 's  time  he  did  settle  down, — not 
that  he's  been  gay — always  lived  most  quiet 
and  respectable  till  lately,"  said  Hancock,  who 
always  spoke  of  his  master  as  "  he." 

"  Don't  give  much  trouble,  does  he  ?  "  asked 
the  other,  already  pondering  over  altered  con- 
ditions- of  service.  "  Don't  waste  all  your  time 
wi*  things  o'  no  value,  does  he  ?  " 


2O2          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Gentle  as  a  lamb,  an'  only  swears  when 
there's  no  dictionary  word  fitting." 

"Well,  I  rayther  like  a  good  'damn'  myself." 
"  But     you  're     a     Methodist,"     suggested 
Hancock,   polite  yet   clinching. 

"  I  'm  not,  either — 'twas  my  last  place," 
explained  the  groom,  "  and  that  was  Plymouth 
Brother." 

"  I  've  never  heard  of  them,"  said  Hancock, 
somewhat  impressed  by  the  unfathomed, 
yet  disguising  this  under  the  supercilious. 
"Sounds  like  a  breed  of  poultry,"  said  he; 
then,  hedging,  "  but '  places  is  difficult,"  he 
concluded. 

Meanwhile,  the  lovers  in  the  cross-avenue 
were  discussing  subject-matter  of  a  less  con- 
troversial character. 

"I  am  so  glad  it  should  have  come  like  this," 
the  Countess  was  saying,  "and  not  suddenly 
and  all  of  a  rush.  I  was  afraid  at  first,"  she 


A  Little  Music.  203 

confessed, — "  it  was  magnificent,  but  it  was  not 
love." 

"  But  there  was  the  possibility  of  losing 
you  !  "  he  answered.  "  You  remember  that 
first  afternoon  when  I  wandered  about  in  the 
rain  till  I  thought  of  Carter- Page  ?  I  had 
almost  lost  you  then — and  it  was  terrible!  I 
had  given  up  all  for  you,  everything  that  I  had 
ever  done  or  dreamt  of  doing." 

"You  have  never  told  me  of  that?"  she 
gently  urged. 

Harvey  confessed: 

"  I  had  written  an  opera.  I  had  worked  on 
it  for  three  years,  and  when  I  met  you  it  was 
just  finished." 

"And  the  opera  ?" 

"  I "  he  hesitated  ;  "  I  destroyed  it- 
destroyed  everything  that  you  had  not  shared." 

"  We  will  write  another,"  she  said. 

"  Live  one,  rather;  this  is  the  second  act  1" 


204  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

His  old  conception  of  music-drama,  the 
climax  in  the  central  act,  still  clung  to  him. 
He  smiled  over  the  involuntary  conceit. 

"  You  look  like  Lohengrin,"  she  said,  mir- 
roring his  happiness. 

"  As  though  I  'd  been  what  Mark  Twain  calls 
'grailing'?"  he  returned,  the  smile  deepening. 
"  By-the-by,  we  must  go  and  see  Sopwith  ;  his 
opera's  due  next  month.  We'll  hear  it  and 
cheer  ? "  And  then  he  told  her  more  about 
Oxford  and  the  old  life  at  the  rooms  in  Down 
Street. 

"You  have  never  regretted  it?"  she  asked 
when  they  had  come  to  the  end. 

"  No,  darling,"  he  answered,  cloudless. 

"And  yet,"  said  she,  "I  have  often  thought 
that  you  were  more  fit  for  something  serious 
than  this  gadding." 

"  So  does  the  Marquis ;  he  wants  me  to  go 
into  Parliament  1 " 


A  Little  Music.  205 

Whereat  they  both  laughed. 

Harvey  did  not  dress  for  dinner,  but  the 
Countess  wore  the  gown  of  two  nights  ago. 
He  recognised  it  as  she  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  sprang  to  her  side. 

"That  was  good  of  you,  darling,"  he  said, 
proudly  regarding  the  queenly  figure.  His  near 
departure  smote  him.  "  I  want  something," 
he  exclaimed,  "  something  that  I  can  always 
have  !  " 

She  took  a  sheaf  of  photographs  out 
of  a  cabinet.  He  had  seen  others,  but 
never  anything  so  recent.  By  a  strange 
coincidence,  she  had  been  taken  in  that  very 
gown. 

"  Some  premonition  ?  "  she  hazarded,  as  he 
looked  from  her  to  the  pictures,  "  and  I  wanted 
them  to  be  for  you." 

The  man  came  in  and  announced  dinner. 

"These  are  mine,"  said  Harvey,  deliberately 


206  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

choosing  each  position.  He  dropped  them  for 
the  original. 

She  made  him  smoke  in  the  drawing-room 
after  their  meal.  Six  quarters  of  an  hour 
remained  to  them. 

The  blinds  were  drawn,  and  they  sat  side  by 
side.  Suddenly  she  arose  and  opened  the 
piano. 

"  Play  !  "  she  said. 

He  hesitated. 

"Forme?" 

She  returned  to  the  sofa  as  he  sat  down. 

"  For  you,"  he  said,  fingering  the  keys. 

Instinctively  he  turned  to  an  episode  in 
Isabella,  a  song  of  Lorenzo's  that  was  the 
culmination  of  his  first  act;  an  impassioned 
declaration  that  he  had  failed  in  a  score  of 
times,  till  at  last,  late  one  afternoon,  a  lovely 
face  that  had  passed  him  in  the  street  had 
given  him  the  true  impulse.  The  words  had 


A  Little  Music.  207 


come   for   the    mere  writing — one   of  the   few 
things  of  all  his  libretto  that  had  lingered : 

All  the  long  day  and  the  night, 
All  through  the  dark  and  the  light, 
I  was  alone,  and  I  knew 
You  wanted  me,  and  I  too 
Wanted  you, 

ran  the  words. 

From  Harvey's  ringers  now  fell  the  original 
melody,  a  leaping-board  from  which  he  ascended 
improvising,  swayed  by  a  deeper  and  a  richer 
flood  of  emotion  than  the  anaemic  stream  of 
yester-year.  He  had  left  Isabella  far  below 
him,  had  risen  to  the  larger  passion  of  the  man 
who  had  known  those  hours  in  the  still  church- 
yard— the  stir  of  the  blood  as  loved  heart 
yearned  to  loved  heart,  as  the  love-warm  lips 
met  and  sundered. 

The  Countess  listened,  spellbound  and 
deathly  silent,  yet  elate  and  following. 

The  year's  suppressed  force,  the  melody  that 


208  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

he  had  baffled  these  many  months,  had  resurged 
all-powerful,  sweeping  the  keys  before  it.  His 
fingers  seemed  to  run  on  uncontrolled,  as  some- 
thing apart  from  himself.  Effortless  and  with 
the  ease  of  a  master,  he  transmuted  his 
exultation  into  music.  This  undreamt  power, 
this  unsuspected  accession  that  made  the 
instrument  sing  under  his  hands  like  a  live 
thing,  outstripping  all  former  experience  and 
manifestation,  half-delighted,  half-frightened 
him.  It  was  as  though  he  had  suddenly 
discovered  the  keys  of  Life  and  Death,  as  a 
possession,  piece  and  part  of  himself.  He 
ceased  playing  and  turned  in  his  seat. 

The  Countess  was  once  more  beside  him. 

"You  love  me,  as  I  love  you — as  I  love 
you  ! "  was  all  she  said.  Criticism  of  the 
rarest. 

At  last  it  was  half-past  nine,  and  Harvey 
would  have  to  go  and  join  Hancock,  who 


A  Little  Music.  209 

was  already  down  at  the  station  with  the 
baggage. 

They  parted  indoors  and  again  at  the  lodge 
gates,  where  he  left  her,  turning  his  head  every 
few  steps  to  catch  a  farewell  glimpse  of  the 
dim  shape  that  watched  him  from  the  roadway. 
Again  his  path  lay  across  the  meadow  and  the 
churchyard. 

"A  woman  !  "  he  was  muttering.  "A  woman 
— bless  her ! " 

Harvey  was  alone  in  the  carriage  that  took 
him  up  to  Charing  Cross.  From  all  sides 
Lady  Grasmere's  portrait  smiled  upon  him. 
He  had  distributed  the  photographs  about  the 
seats.  They  were  marvellous  good  company. 


CHAPTER    V. 

A    LITTLE     MORE     MUSIC. 

SOPWITH'S  opera,  Francesco,  of  Rimini, 
was  really  going  to  be  put  on  that  season. 
Almost  every  paper  that  Merceron  picked  up  at 
his  club  contained  preliminary  announcements 
to  this  effect  :  the  announcement  direct,  the 
announcement  indirect,  the  personal,  the  super- 
fluous,— every  variety,  and  all  bearing  marks  of 
similar  inspiration.  Some  of  the  illustrated 
weeklies  even  indulged  in  portraits  of  the 
gifted  composer  himself,  and  The  Musical 
Messenger,  ever  in  the  van,  added  an  exclusive 
biographical  notice  to  the  information  already 
imparted  in  its  news  columns.  Sopwith's 
likeness,  too,  was  on  the  front  page,  a  matter 
•10 


A  Little  More  Music.  21 1 

of  ten  guineas  cash,  or  twenty  guineas  credit. 
As  Captain  Mills  had  already  stated,  the  sitter's 
hair  had  gone  to  enormous  lengths ;  and,  in 
addition,  pose,  costume,  and  expression  were 
founded  on  easily  recognisable  precedent. 
Sopwith,  if  this  portrait  did  him  justice,  had 
certainly  been  equal  to  the  most  popular  con- 
ception of  the  musical  exterior. 

Harvey  smiled  broadly  over  this  transfor- 
mation ;  the  careless  bow  and  the  velvet 
coat,  that  had  replaced  the  faultless  garb 
of  the  olden  days,  afforded  him  an  unalloyed 
delight. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  music 's  half  as  good  as  old 
Sop — pity  he  doesn't  call  himself  Soppesini !  " 
he  said,  turning  to  the  limited  biography  on 
the  subsequent  page. 

This  last  partook  greatly  of  the  nature  of 
those  edifying  fictions  which  are  proclaimed  by 
their  authors  to  be  "  largely  founded  on  fact." 


212  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

The  composer's  nationality,  his  unimpeachable 
British  descent,  were  insisted  upon  with  all  the 
fervour  of  the  fourth-rate  trade  journalist  over- 
eager  to  propitiate  his  audience.  A  stirring 
narrative  !  Sopwith's  feats  as  a  lad,  his  brilliant 
Oxford  career,  his  successful  songs,  the  pride 
of  his  parents  and  their  son's  devotion,  were 
all  deftly  touched  upon.  Pathos  and  the 
admirative  note  blended  ;  a  character  that 
the  ladies  have  unanimously  agreed  to  term 
"interesting"  was  unfolded  in  this  pleasant 
history.  Harvey's  smile  grew  broader. 

Of  the  composer  himself,  however,  Merceron 
saw  nothing ;  for  Sopwith  pleaded  pressure  of 
business  to  every  suggested  meeting,  and, 
indeed,  judging  by  the  amount  of  attention  his 
opera  was  already  receiving,  he  must  have 
been  indefatigable.  So  Harvey  was  left  to 
picture  his  perspiring  friend,  rushing  breathless 
from  place  to  place  in  search  of  advertisement, 


A  Little  More  Music.  213 

with  intervals  for  rehearsals  and  the  seeing  of 
interviewers. 

That  distinguished  patron  of  the  arts,  the 
Marquis  of  Stoke,  was  more  fortunate.  Sopwith 
had  even  attended  a  reception  at  Stoke  House. 
"  A  most  talented  young  man ;  and  not  above 
accepting  advice  from  his  seniors,"  was  his 
host's  description  of  him.  Indirectly,  too, 
Merceron  had  gathered  further  tidings.  Had 
he  not  been  more  pleasantly  occupied,  he  might 
himself  have  encountered  the  mobile  Sopwith, 
for  the  composer  was  fully  living  up  to  former 
precept,  and  securing  all  possible  social  notice. 
But  Harvey  was  in  no  mood  for  crushes,  and 
so  allowed  opportunity  to  pass  him  by.  He 
had  a  seat  in  Lady  Grasmere's  box  for  the  first 
night  of  Francesca,  and  meanwhile  other  and 
more  immediate  calls  occupied  his  time  and 
attention. 

The  Countess  was  back  at  Albert  Gate,  and 


214  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Harvey  was  troubling  very  little  about  Sopwith 
or  any  other  outside  diversion  just  then.  True, 
he  still  went  out  a  great  deal,  wherever  Lady 
Grasmere  led  the  way.  But  she  had  withdrawn 
considerably  from  last  year's  procession,  and 
moved  now  only  around  an  inner  circle  that 
kept  reasonable  hours  and  limited  its  entertain- 
ments. To  these  functions  Sopwith  had  no 
access,  for  it  required  real  social  prestige  to 
obtain  cards  for  such  smaller  festivities,  whereas 
most  of  the  larger  affairs  were  about  as  select 
as  a  race-meeting. 

Harvey  was  to  dine  with  Lady  Grasmere  the 
night  that  Sopwith's  opera  came  on,  and  Mrs. 
Hodgson  was  to  be  handed  over  to  the  Warings 
both  before  and  after  the  performance.  The 
conspirators  had  reserved  that  evening  as  soon 
as  the  date  had  transpired,  quick  to  seize  upon 
any  opportunity  for  one  of  the  few  unchallenged 
tete-a-tetes  permitted  them  by  the  season's  whirl. 


A  Little  More  Music.  315 

Their  time  would  be  their  own  in  a  month  or 
two.  They  had  preferred  the  present  course, 
with  Lady  Horace  and  Mrs.  Hodgson  as  sole 
confidantes,  to  the  formalities  of  a  duly  para- 
graphed betrothal. 

The  evening,  thus  carefully  set  aside,  arrived, 
doubly  attractive ;  for,  beside  Lady  Grasmere's 
presence,  there  would  be  the  diversion  of  a 
spectacle  which  Harvey  was  looking  forward 
to  with  almost  a  personal  interest.  The  first 
night  of  Francesca  meant  more  to  him  than  the 
presentation  of  a  musical  novelty  written  by  an 
intimate  friend.  The  situation  was  primarily 
one  that  he  himself  had  but  barely  escaped ; 
as  such,  would  possess  a  spice  of  the  exquisitely 
egotistical,  a  flavour  of  self  that  few  men  are 
permitted  to  enjoy  without  due  sacrifice  and 
imminent  risk.  He  knew,  too,  that  Sopwith's 
work  would  be  largely  influenced  by  his  own 
vanished  method  and  vision.  His  step  was 


216  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

more  than  ordinarily  elastic  as  he  walked  over 
to  Albert  Gate  that  evening. 

It  was  close  on  seven  when  Harvey  came  in. 
He  had  brought  a  spray  of  orchids  for  her 
ladyship,  and  was  visibly  excited  over  the 
evening's  arrangements.  Mrs.  Hodgson  met 
him  in  the  hall,  ready  for  the  cab  that  was  to 
take  her  to  the  Warings. 

"  Punctual,"  said  she ;  "such  deception  too  ! " 
with  mock  indignation.  The  Countess  joined 
them.  "They're  always  hours  late  when 
they're  married,"  added  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Harvey. 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  Countess. 

"  What  about  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"T ..at  you've  brought  Mr.  Hodgson  up  so 
wickedly,"  said  Harvey. 

"  So  shamefully  !  "  added  the  Countess. 

"That's  my  cab,"  said  Mrs.  Hodgson,  "and 
I  'm  only  going  to  give  him  a  shilling." 


A  Little  More  Music.  217 

They  wished  her  good-night. 

Dinner  was  ready,  and  the  carriage  would 
take  them  down  in  good  time  for  the  overture. 

"  I  almost  feel  as  though  I  'd  written  it 
myself,"  declared  Harvey,  as  they  sat  down. 
"  It 's  more  exciting  than  I  thought  it  would 
be  :  he 's  not  conducting  himself — I  would 
have  done  ! " 

His  eagerness  was  infectious,  and,  as  they 
dined,  this  new  work  was  discussed  with 
multifarious  speculations  as  to  the  treatment. 

"  The  wind  up  ought  to  be  splendid," 
insisted  Harvey.  "  Of  course  he  will  have 
them  put  to  death  on  the  stage — it  '11  make  a 
splendid  finale — I  feel  quite  envious ! "  he 
exclaimed  with  dancing  eyes. 

Lady  Grasmere  assisted,  joining  in  with  : 

"  It  '11  be  something  like  the  finish  of 
Tristan,  only  more  dramatic.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 


2i8          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  Yes ;  only  Lanciotto  's  a  brute,  not  a  man 
like  King  Mark — and  there  's  no  love  philtre 
or  magic  of  any  kind — it's  almost  modern," 
he  answered,  following  out  the  comparison  that 
her  question  had  suggested. 

"  I  wonder  whether  they  '11  have  the  scene  in 
The  Inferno?  It  would  make  a  fine  tableau 
at  the  end — Dante  watching  them  sail  by." 

But  Harvey  objected  to  this. 

"  It  would  be  bad  art — quite  .outside  the 
tragedy — and  one  wouldn't  quite  see  the  force 
of  it  unless  one  were  a  believing  Papist,"  he 
protested. 

No  external  event  had  ever  roused  him  as 
this.  She  had  never  fully  recognised  the  artist 
in  him  till  to-night.  When  he  had  played  to 
her,  only  the  musician  had  been  evident ;  now, 
the  critic  completed  a  personality  that  was  full 
of  surprises. 

Their  light  meal  was  swiftly  served.    Harvey 


A  Little  More  Music.  219 

was  to  come  back  afterwards  for  some  supper. 
There  was  time  for  a  cigarette  and  coffee 
before  the  carriage  would  be  round. 

The  Countess  was  looking  hard  at  Merceron 
in  the  interval.  She  suddenly  interrupted  this 
brown  study,  and  came  over  to  him. 

"  Harvey,"  she  said  probingly,  "  you  're 
never  going  to  get  spoiled,  are  you?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  contradiction,  won- 
dering. 

"You  were  quite  your  first  self  just  now," 
she  resumed,  "just  now  when  we  were  guessing 
what  the  opera  was  going  to  be  like — I  was  so 
happy.  Sometimes,  of  late,  I  think  you've 
lost  a  great  deal,"  she  continued,  "and  some- 
times I'm  sure  I'm  mistaken.  I  do  so  wish 
that  you'll  never  get  like  the  other  men  one 
knows,  hard  to  please  and  critical — and  more 
selfish  than  is  absolutely  necessary."  She 
smiled  as  she  added  this  last  item  to  the  rest, 


22O  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

but  there  was  an  earnest,  even  an  undernote 
of  sadness,  running  through  her  voice. 

"I  won't,  darling;  I  didn't  quite  know  that 
I  had  altered — I  haven't,  have  I  ?  In  fact,"  he 
added,  with  evasive  lightness,  "  the  only 
change  I  've  noticed  is  that  I  usually  have  a 
brandy-and-soda  in  the  morning — which  I 
never  used  to." 

She  leaned  over  his  shoulder  and  placed  her 
cheek  on  his : 

"  There 's  no  real  difference,  and  you  're  ever 
so  much  nicer,  really,"  she  said,  "  but  one 
becomes  machine-made  if  one  lets  one's  self 
go." 

"That's  just  what  I  did  at  the  beginning," 
he  gaily  expostulated. 

She  smiled  as  well. 

"I  don't  mean  that  sort,  but  getting  in- 
different just  to  save  one's  self  the  trouble  of 
thinking,"  she  resumed ;  "  I  know  it 's  easy, 


A   Little  Mere  Muiic.  221 

but,  Harvey,  I  often  think  that  that 's  the 
reason  why  half  the  men  one  meets  are  such 
bores — and  some  of  them  were  such  nice  boys 
once !  " 

He  kissed  the  dear  face  thoughtfully. 

"  I  don't  think  I  'm  ever  likely  to  become  a 
vegetable  ?  "  he  said. 

"You  won't,  will  you?  It's  time  we  were 
starting ! " 

"  You  are  no  end  of  a  dear,"  he  whispered 
five  minutes  later,  as  they  sat  in  the  brougham. 

Her  hand  stole  into  his. 

Outside  roared  London,  with  voice  redoubled, 
fully  raised ;  a  chorus,  joyous,  gigantic,  hailing 
its  evening  release,  trumpeting  forth  its 
myriad  anticipations.  Westwards  and  east- 
wards, through  the  sounding  street,  the  traffic 
surged,  and  pavements  were  gay  with  life  and 
motion. 

Calm,  as  though  filled  with  an  unutterable 


222  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

peace,  the  blue  of  heaven  showed  above  jhe 
housetops,  contrasting,  almost  consciously  con- 
trasting, with  the  strife  below — a  protest  and  a 
promise. 

The  carriage  picked  its  way,  through  and 
under,  one  of  a  hundred  that  that  night 
emptied  before  the  portico  of  the  Covent 
Garden  opera  house.  And  now  Harvey  and 
the  Countess  were  in  their  box,  studying  the 
programme  and  libretto  of  Sop  with 's  initial 
flight,  Francesca  of  Rimini. 


CHAPTER      VI. 

STILL      MORE      MUSIC. 

house  was  rapidly  filling.  A  flowing 
-*•  stream  of  fashionable  arrivals  poured 
through  the  lobby,  wound  up  the  broad  stair- 
case, was  dispersed  in  the  curving  corridors. 
The  doors  of  the  countless  boxes  that  wall  the 
auditorium,  those  doors  whereon  you  may  read 
some  of  the  proudest  names  in  Europe,  turned 
ceaselessly  on  their  hinges.  A  great  crowd 
manifestly  attracted  by  an  exceptional  occasion 
— this  unique  performance — was  swiftly  gather- 
ing. Years  had  elapsed  since  the  work  of  a 
British-born  composer  had  been  presented  in- 
this  classic  house. 

An  air  of  expectancy,  of  anticipation,  hung 


224          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

over  the  huge  theatre.  The  performance  that 
was  about  to  open  had  been  heralded  with  no 
common  vigour.  Long  before  the  door  had 
flung  back  a  swarming  queue  had  gathered 
about  the  entrances  to  the  cheaper  seats.  The 
amateurs  of  the  gallery,  those  rigid  connoisseurs 
to  whom  such  an  evening  meant  a  solid  curtail- 
ment of  more  material  delights,  had  paid  their 
hard-earned  silver  and  were  preparing  to  sit  in 
judgment.  They  had  studied  the  libretto,  read 
the  evening  paper,  struck  up  casual  acquaint- 
anceships, or  discussed  the  classics  with  feeling 
and  determination,  the  half-hour  past.  It  was 
hot  up  there — terribly  hot  and  crowded ;  the 
seats  hard  as  inferior  railway  accommodation. 

Below  these  serried  ranks  sat  the  suburban 
enthusiast,  feminine  for  the  most  part,  who  had 
sent  postal  orders  to  the  booking-office  weeks 
beforehand.  A  more  serious  and  formal 
company  this,  muttering  occasional  complaint 


Still  More  Music.  225 

anent  the  inaccessibility  of  the  score,  occasion- 
ally proclaiming  its  relationship  to  a  press- 
ticket  in  the  stalls — some  critic  whom  publicity 
had  severed  from  the  obscurity  of  the  remnant. 
The  foreign  element  so  marked  here  on  other 
nights,  was  conspicuously  absent.  The  per- 
formances of  a  British  composer  it  looked  upon 
as  an  encroachment,  as  something  "  foul  and 
most  unnatural."  Here,  as  above,  all  was 
compact  and  apprehensive,  and  the  brilliant 
light  that  emanated  from  the  huge  chandelier 
showed  no  vacant  seat.  And  the  young 
women  who  preponderated,  attired  in  costumes 
reminiscent  of  Liberty  and  the  New  Gallery, 
waited  eager  and  discovered  celebrities,  in  the 
mass  below. 

Even  the  stalls  and  boxes  had  shared  in  the 
prevailing  punctuality.  Sopwith's  friends  and 
patrons — and  their  tale  was  legion — had  come  to 

shower  applause  and  encouragement.     Though 
15 


226  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

to  a  certain  extent  lacking  in  the  discrimination 
of  the  cheaper  seats,  these  later  arrivals  were 
better  dressed,  and  most  of  them  had  come  in 
their  own  carriages.  They  leavened  the  floor 
of  the  house,  they  leaned  over  the  cushions  of 
half  the  boxes.  A  certain  satisfaction  as  of 
proprietorship  overspread  their  features ;  the 
sense  of  an  almost  personal  share  in  the 
evening's  doings  flattered  agreeably.  Even  the 
least  susceptible  responded  to  this  subtle 
invitation  to  play  a  gracious  role.  Their  vanity 
had  been  caressed  by  an  appeal  so  delicate  as 
to  have  escaped  consciousness. 

Mingled  with  these  dilettanti  were  the  politer 
members  of  the  profession,  wearers  of  the 
laurel  wreath,  musicians  of  assured  renown, 
middle-aged  or  grey,  who  had  come  in  to  assist 
at  the  enterprise  of  a  junior ;  a  polyglot  com- 
munity of  carefully  groomed  lions,  leonine  too 
in  the  richness  of  their  hirsute  adornments; 


Still  More  Music.  227 

men  and  women  whom  the  platform  had  set 
unmistakably  apart  from  the  pursuers  of  a  less 
florid  career.  Secure  upon  pedestals  whose 
stability  no  new  arrival  could  endanger,  these 
famous  champions  twirled  their  moustachios, 
and  indulgently  suffered  the  scrutiny  of  an 
admiring  public.  The  younger  generation 
was  seated  with  its  seniors,  symbolising  the 
Millennium.  A  sterner  and  a  more  exacting 
band  this  younger  generation,  it  had  evidently 
come  prepared  to  accept  nothing  but  a  score 
entirely  orchestral,  methods  the  most  advanced. 
Technique  was  manifest  on  its  unflinching  front, 
purity  of  feeling  its  most  modest  requirement ; 
for  the  younger  generation  had  lived  and  had 
frequented  the  new  academies,  and  now  waited, 
an  uncompromising  crew,  gloomily  expectant, 
and  pessimistically  scenting  a  barbarous  re- 
jection of  all  its  own  most  cherished  theories. 
In  the  stalls,  too,  were  the  critics,  a  row  of 


228  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 


strangely  assorted  faces  bespeaking  varieties  of 
temperament  sufficient  to  furnish  an  anthro- 
pological museum ;  a  veritable  Noah's  Ark 
of  representative  types — the  thoughtful  and 
scholarly,  severely  conscientious  and  of  an  open 
mind;  the  facile  egotistical  and  the  facile 
plausible,  both  equally  bent  on  concealment  of 
ignorance  though  differing  in  method ;  the 
accidentally  critical,  irresponsible  and  scintil- 
lating ;  the  missionary  enthusiastic,  ardent  and 
filled  with  prophesy ;  the  sound  and  weighty, 
unadventurous  and  shy  of  innovation ;  the 
prettily  sensuous,  emotional  and  ladylike ;  the 
Cockney  brilliant,  anarchic  and  in  constant 
opposition — the  list  is  endless.  The  woman- 
critic  too,  the  reticent  and  the  gushing,  the 
classical  and  the  flamboyant,  was  also  in 
pursuit.  And  interleaving  this  varied  assembly 
was  the  fashionable  mob,  bejewelled  and 
bediademed,  the  heroes  and  her6ines  of 


Still  More  MuJ.c.  229 

the  London  season,  the  children  of  light 
whose  ease  and  radiance  had  so  shaken 
our  friend  Merceron  some  nine  months  since, 
when,  with  Hutchinson  on  his  arm,  he  had 
re-entered  the  world. 

Now,  above  the  chatter,  the  greetings  and 
speculations,  the  movement  of  all  this  eager 
multitude,  arose  the  scrapings  and  strange 
noises  of  an  orchestra  making  ready.  This 
tuning-up  ceased  and  with  it  the  well-bred 
gossip.  The  conductor  had  stepped  into  his 
place  ;  expectation  electrified  the  air. 

In  the  box  where  sat  Harvey  and  Lady 
Grasmere  reigned  an  alert  silence.  The  libretto 
of  Francesco,  had  been  laid  aside.  They  were 
waiting.  The  conductor  gave  the  signal. 
From  the  'cello  yearned  pianissimo  the  first 
bars  of  the  overture — the  overture  to  ISABELLA. 

The  violins  swelled  the  movement,  the  flutes 
and  oboes  softened  the  rising  volume,  and 


236  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Harvey  sat  in  the  semi-darkness  wondering 
whether  he  were  asleep  or  waking.  He  looked 
across  at  his  companion,  but  she  was  listening 
unmoved,  an  arm  resting  on  the  cushioned 
front  of  their  box.  The  quiet  was  unbroken, 
the  music  continued,  undisturbed  save  for  the 
rustle  of  a  few  late-comers  tiptoeing  to  their 
seats.  The  overture  proceeded,  ebbing  and 
flowing,  theme  melting  into  theme,  as  he  had 
planned  it;  no  break  in  the  familiar  continuity, 
episode  on  episode,  till,  at  the  end,  only  the 
violins  spoke,  dwelling  on  that  minor  melody 
which  Harvey  had  improvised  from  that  night 
when  he  took  train  for  London,  when  he  had 
played  as  never  before — for  her.  The  incom- 
plete thing  sighed  out  its  woe,  a  sweet  enough 
trifle — too  sweet,  perhaps — yet  of  a  certain 
grace  and  beauty ;  an  undeniably  promising 
youthfulness.  The  conductor's  wand  dropped. 
The  house  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  Sopwith's 


Still  More  Music.  231 

friends  broke  the  silence,  applauding  from  the 
three  quarters.  Other  hands  followed,  filling 
the  theatre  with  an  encouraging  echoing  and 
re-echoing.  Merceron,  deathly  pale,  was  gazing 
straight  ahead,  speechless  and  vaguely  won- 
dering as  to  what  would  follow  upon  this 
opening  of  surprise  and  betrayal. 

The  curtain  rose  upon  a  splendid  imposition, 
upon  a  libretto  transformed,  an  Isabella 
masquerading  as  Francesca,  a  Lorenzo  im- 
personifying  Paolo.  Harvey's  music  had 
been  all  but  retained.  The  two  stories  were  sc 
nearly  alike,  and  Sopwith  had  made  full  use  of 
opportunity,  had  deftly  altered  the  libretto,  yet 
retained  the  setting — Sopwith,  the  thief ! 

Instead  of  the  household  of  the  two  brothers, 
the  movement  of  the  first  act  transpired  at  the 
palace  of  the  lord  of  Rimini.  Very  cleverly  was 
this  transposition  effected.  The  license  of  the 
librettist  had  been  taken  full  advantage  of  by 


232  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

the  author  of  the  book.  He  had  retained  the 
exact  form  of  the  original  version,  had  retold 
his  story  in  the  very  mould  of  Merceron's 
Isabella.  The  two  tales  were  so  nearly  alike, 
and  he  had  overlooked  all  difference,  following 
the  expression,  of  the  music,  and  unfolding  his 
tragic  history  with  a  singular  dexterity.  A 
clever  rogue  undoubtedly  was  this  librettist, 
despite  the  many  advantages  of  the  situation. 
For  the  most  had  been  in  his  favour.  The 
suppressed  passion  of  the  lovers,  half  con- 
fessed, yet  only  half  suspected  —  the  two 
narratives  were  identical.  Their  meetings, 
clandestine  in  the  one  case,  permitted  in  the 
other,  and  then  the  avowal  (here  over  the  open 
book  that  told  of  the  fall  of  Lancelot  and 
Guinevere),  the  impassioned  declaration  that 
followed — their  stories  held  no  vital  difference. 
Merceron  sat  silent  to  the  end,  till  that  one 
redeeming  melody,  Lorenzo's  heated  confession, 


Still  More  Music.  233 

brought  down  the  curtain  on  the  opening  act. 
Again  the  audience  wavered,  till  Sopwith's 
friends  leading  the  applause  decided  the  unde- 
cided. The  lights  flashed  up,  the  singers 
responded ;  then  a  babel  of  chatter,  a  flourish 
of  critical  pencils,  and  invasion.  And  all  the 
while  Harvey  had  not  spoken,  nor  had  the 
Countess.  Their  thoughts  were  speedily  dis- 
turbed. Sir  Horace  and  Lady  Waring  had 
come  in  with  Mrs.  Hodgson. 

"Rather  ambitious,"  ventured  Sir  Horace. 
"  Rather  ambitious."  But  Harvey  had  no  heart 
for  discussion.  He  wanted  fresh  air. 

"  I  am  going  out  to  see  a  man — excuse  me 
for  a  moment  ?  "  he  said,  snapping  his  opera- 
hat.  Then  he  left  them. 


CHAPTER     VII. 

THE    VICTIMS. 

HARVEY  did  not  stay  in  the  theatre.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone,  to  be  unobserved; 
the  load  of  the  present  was  more  than  he 
could  openly  support.  The  unfamiliar  walls 
repelled,  the  enclosed  space  stifled  him ;  every 
face  that  he  encountered  was  a  new  constraint ; 
and  his  feelings  must  have  free  play,  his  frame 
fresh  air,  or  he  would  suffocate. 

He  crossed  the  hall  and  went  out  into  the 
street,  escaping  the  light  and  the  oppressive 
contact  of  the  audience ;  turning  away  into  a 
dark  and  empty  passage,  one  of  the  many  that 
open  out  on  to  the  great  market.  Here  he  was 
undisturbed,  only  one  other  pedestrian  disputed 
the  seclusion. 

•34 


The  Victims.  235 


This  alley  of  Merceron's  was  by  night  an 
almost  lifeless  place,  a  strip  of  asphalt  running 
between  the  huge  bulk  of  a  row  of  warehouses 
and  a  blank  wall  of  the  opera  house  that 
adjoined  a  similar  wall  belonging  to  one  of  the 
market  buildings.  These  many-storied  ware- 
houses were  dark  and  tenantless,  only  less 
sombre  than  the  opposing  masonry;  and  through 
these  two  silences  ran  the  narrow  passage,  its 
feeble  gas-lamps  waging  hopeless  warfare  with 
a  darkness  enclosed,  hemmed  in,  and  black 
with  shadow. 

At  the  mouth  of  this  byway  there  gleamed 
the  misty  radiance  of  two  opposing  public- 
houses  ;  yet  between  lay  a  more  than  sufficient 
desert  of  gloomy  asphalt.  This,  Harvey  could 
pace  uninterrupted,  alone  with  the  resurgent 
flood  that  had  taken  him  by  the  throat  and 
forced  him  out  of  doors. 

The  man  in  front  of  Merceron  reached  the 


236  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

yellow  glare  from  the  two  corners,  but,  instead 
of  continuing  across  the  market,  checked  him- 
self and  turned.  They  passed  each  other  in 
the  dim  passage,  and  Harvey,  unaware  of  the 
retracement,  went  on  to  the  public-house  lights, 
then  back  again.  Once  more  they  met  on  their 
opposing  beats. 

The  even  footfalls  in  the  empty  street  merged 
imperceptibly  into  the  rhythm  of  Harvey's 
thoughts.  In  later  years  he  never  recalled  this 
interval  of  refuge,  without  an  accompanying 
understrain  of  steady  footfalls.  The  man 
repassed  him,  and  he  looked  up.  They  were 
near  one  of  the  gas-lamps. 

"  It's  no  go,"  said  Merceron,  "you're  in  for 
it." 

His  imaginary  conversation  with  Sopwith 
was  now  replaced  by  a  more  real  interview. 

The  composer  halted,  recognised  the  speaker, 
with  mind  zigzaging  till  it  reached  a  position 


The  Victims.  237 


that  enabled  it  to  grasp  Harvey's  remark,  and, 
approximately,  his  attitude. 

"  It  breaks  down,  goes  from  bad  to  worse  as 
the  story  intensifies,"  continued  Merceron, 
very  calmly,  with  the  tone  and  manner  of  a 
man  facing  an  already  accomplished  fact. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  "  asked  Sopwith 
uneasily.  His  voice  acknowledged  all  the 
old  ascendency,  the  old  instinctive  faith  in 
Merceron's  judgment — the  exaggerated  belief 
of  the  consciously  unoriginal  artist  in  the  man 
of  convictions. 

"  It  must  fail,  there 's  nothing  more  for  it  to 
live  on,  the  rest 's  all  limp — soft  as  butter." 

"  But  they  seemed  pleased,  they  were  clap- 
ping all  over  the  house  just  now  and  after  the 
overture,"  urged  Sopwith. 

"There  was  that  one  thing  of  Lorenzo's — 
but  there 's  nothing  else  left,  it  can't  go  on." 

The    composer  listened  like   one    doomed. 


238  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Merceron's  words  fell  with  a  finality  that  over- 
powered even  the  most  laggard  of  his  hopes. 

"  But  you  thought  it  good — you  were  pleased 
with  it,"  he  protested. 

"  I  was  when  I  wrote  it — the  workmanship 
is  good,  good  enough  to  be  proud  of — but 
there 's  no  real  life  in  it,  the  workmanship's  all 
wasted  on  unreal  emotion,"  returned  Harvey, 
patiently  dissecting  Isabella,  more  for  his  own 
delectation  than  for  Sopwith's.  He  continued, 
evenly  as  before,  with  an  exasperating  calm, 
"  I  had  no  real  experience,  I  was  writing  about 
things  I  did  not  understand — it's  all  ineffectual, 
not  a  natural  emotion  in  it  except  that  glimmer 
of  a  one  they  sang  just  now." 

"But "  Sopwith  attempted.  He  could 

get  no  further,  could  find  no  objection ;  even 
suspicion  of  Harvey's  disinterestedness  was 
disarmed  by  the  business-like  exposition  with 
which  he  had  just  been  favoured. 


The  Victims.  239 


"  But  ?  "  questioned  Merceron  who  was 
waiting. 

"It may  come  through?"  hazarded  Sopwith, 
more  to  supply  an  evident  demand  than  from 
any  latent  hopefulness. 

Harvey  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  not  this,  perhaps  the  next,  the  next 
may ;  but  you  don't  understand,  you  never  will 
understand."  The  futile  words,  the  unintelli- 
gence  of  his  questioner,  were  wearying  him. 
He  had  said  all  he  had  to  say. 

Yet  Sopwith  remained,  breaking  out  desper- 
ately with : 

"  Why  did  you  believe  in  it  then — why  did 
you  believe  in  it !  " 

"  You  know  how  I  used  to  live,  shut  up  from 
everything,  feeling  everything  with  my  head 
instead  of — but  you  don't  understand,"  replied 
Merceron.  He  was  growing  impatient,  the 
interview  was  being  needlessly  prolonged. 


240          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"But  what  shall  I  do — what  am  /  to  do?" 
demanded  Sopwith  in  the  voice  of  a  drowning 
man.  "What  shall  I  do!" 

Harvey  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  know — it 's  your  own  fault." 

But  Sopwith  defended  himself. 

"It  isn't.  I  never  meant  to  do  this,"  he 
whined  ;  "  I  never  meant  to  do  this  !  " 

Harvey  took  a  pace  forward,  but  the  composer 
followed  him. 

"  You  think  me  a  thief  ?  "  he  said,  clutching 
at  a  lapel  of  Harvey's  coat. 

"  I  could — but  I  'm  not  bothering  about  that ! " 

"But  I'm  not — I'm  not  a  thief!  I  was 
trapped  ! " 

Merceron  looked  wonderingly  at  his  erstwhile 
friend.  Was  the  man  demented  ? 

"  Trapped,"  repeated  Sopwith,  "  trapped  ! 
You  don't  know  what  I  've  had  to  put  up  with 
all  these  months ;  and  now — and  now  it 's 


The  Victims. 


going  all  wrong!"  and  he  burst  into  tears, 
breaking  down  completely,  weeping  hysterically 
in  that  narrow  passage,  that  strip  of  walled-in 
asphalt,  running  back  to  where  the  yellow 
lights  shone  from  the  two  public:houses  that 
overlooked  the  great  market. 

Harvey  had  severed  himself  from  his  own 
thoughts,  was  trying  to  follow  the  obscure 
accusations  of  the  abject  wretch  at  his  side. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

A  faint  sound  as  of  a  distant  orchestra  floated 
on  to  the  silence. 

"  They  're  beginning  again,"  said  Sopwith. 
He  had  pulled  himself  together,  was  listening 
eagerly.  "  Isn't  it  any  good  ?  It  must  be 
some  good — it  must  be  some  good,  or  else  they 
wouldn't  play  it ! "  he  exclaimed  with  growing 
conviction.  The  genuineness  of  the  performance 
must  have  some  equally  genuine  justification, 

some  raison  d'etre  proportionately  vigorous. 
16 


242  An  Opera  <£•  Lady  Grasmere. 


But  Harvey's  gesture  shattered  the  fugitive 
assumption.  The  former  tone  returned,  an  even 
greater  degree  of  desperation  than  before. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  afterwards  ?  I  'm  quite 
ruined  I  "  Sopwith's  hand  still  clutched  the 
lapel.  "  I  've  put  money  into  it — every  cent 
I  've  got,  and  I  've  borrowed,  and  my  reputa- 
tion 's  clean  gone.  I  can't  disclaim  it  and  say 
it's  yours  ;  you  won't  say  it 's  yours,  and  if  you 

did "  The  distracted  wretch  paused, 

speechless  and  dazed,  as  he  began  to  realise 
the  multiplied  hopelessness  of  his  position, 
the  completeness  of  this  checkmating.  "What 
am  I  to  do — whatever  am  I  to  do?"  he  was 
sobbing  afresh.  "  And  all  these  months,  as 
though  they  weren't  enough — why  did  you 
ask  me  to  come  that  evening,  and  why  weren't 
you  in  ?  I  didn't  want  to  take  it  1  I  hadn't 
meant  to  take  anything!  I  never  took  any- 
thing in  my  life  before  or  since  1  It's  your 


The  Victims.  243 

doing,  you  and  that  man  who  let  me  in — yours 
and  his  ! " 

Harvey's  perplexity  was  growing.  The 
spectacle  at  which  he  was  assisting  had 
swamped  his  own  private  drama. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  all  this  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  What  man,  and  who  let  you  in  ?  I  know 

nothing  about  either  of  you,  unless "  He 

paused.  Was  Sopwith  referring  to  Hutchinson's 
brother  officer  and  his  own  former  suspect  ? 
"  What  had  the  man  to  do  with  you  ? "  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"  Didn't  he  tell  you,  and  don't  you  know  ? 
You  must  have  asked  him.  You  knew  it  was  I 
who  took  the  music,  didn't  you  ?  "  Sopwith's 
voice  rose  with  each  question ;  his  companion's 
ignorance  seemed  incredible.  "  You  must  have 
asked  him,  and  you  knew  it  was  I  ?  "  he  repeated. 
"  Why,  you  wrote  me  an  insulting  letter — called 
me  an  idiot  twice  1 " 


244          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  I  didn't.  I  only  found  you  out  to-night. 
I  told  you  I  hadn't  worried,"  Harvey  briefly 
replied. 

"  But  you  saw  how  I  was  keeping  out  of 
your  way,  month  after  month  ;  and  didn't  that 
man  tell  you  that  he  let  me  in  as  he  was 
leaving  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  friend  of  a  friend,  and  I  've  never 
even  seen  him." 

"And  I  made  sure  that  he  would  tell  you; 
that  you  knew  all  the  time.  I  Ve  been  miser- 
able ever  since,  wondering  what  was  going  to 
happen ;  and  yet  I  couldn't  go  back.  You 
don't  know  what  I  've  had  to  put  up  with ;  and 
now,  my  God !  this  is  more  than  I  deserve ! 
I  'm  going  to  be  paid  out  further,  as  though 
I  hadn't  had  enough  already  !  "  and  the  miser- 
able victim  shook  and  swayed  in  a  very  passion 
of  remorse  as  the  uselessness  of  all  his  plotting 
drove  deeper. 


The  Victims.  245 


Harvey  steadied  him  against  the  wall. 

"  Boot  laces,  buy  a  pair "  but  the  man 

passed  on  without  concluding  his  appeal. 
Sopwith's  face  had  silenced  him.  "  Toffs  !  " 
he  muttered ;  "  toffs  !  No,  'tweren't  booze — 
nor  ill.  Gawd  bless  you,  sir !  "  Harvey  had 
flung  him  a  coin.  He  shuffled  off  towards  the 
lights  at  the  corner. 

The  distant  orchestra,  itself  tragi-comical, 
still  murmured,  whispered  its  accompani- 
ment to  the  tragi-comedy  that  was  being 
enacted  in  this  remote  byway  of  Central 
London. 

So  Hutchinson's  friend  had  waited,  and 
Sopwith  had  met  him  as  he  was  leaving  the 
Down  Street  Chambers.  The  door  had  been 
open  and  Sopwith  had  walked  in. 

He  was  still  discoursing,  raging  against 
misfortune,  the  tears  beading  his  cheeks : 

"  Trapped  !    trapped  by  you  two  !  " 


246  An  Opera  6-  Lady  Grasmere. 

He  repeated  the  charge  a  dozen  times. 

"  Supposing  you  consider  your  own  share 
of  the  business  ?  "  suggested  Harvey  at 
last. 

But  Sopwith  flared  up : 

"  He  let  me  in,  didn't  he  ?  and  you  had 
asked  me  to  come.  ...  He  wanted  to 
know  if  I  were  you  first,  and  when  I  said 
I  wasn't  he  went  downstairs,  leaving  your 
door  open  for  me  to  walk  in ;  and  no  one 
knew  I  had  come,  and  he  didn't  know  who 
I  was." 

"Well?" 

"  Don't  you  see  how  I  was  tempted  ?  .  .  . 
I  was  alone  in  your  rooms,  and  nobody  had 
seen  me  come  in  except  that  man  who  didn't 
know  me  from  a  crow.  I  sat  down  and  waited 
for  you,  meaning  no  harm  ;  and  then  suddenly 
the  temptation  came.  ...  I  knew  how  you  'd 
worked  on  the  thing,  and  that  it  was  finished. 


The  Victims.  247 


...  I  thought  you  were  a  genius,  and  that 
that  opera  was  a  work  of  genius.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  see  how  I  was  tempted  ?  .  .  .  And  it  was 
in  the  cabinet,  and  no  one  knew  I  was  there.  .  .  . 
I  could  get  it  put  on  if  I  had  it,  I  was  almost 
sure  of  that ;  I  knew  all  the  right  people.  .  .  . 
And  if  you  had  it  you  would  never  do  any  good 
with  it ;  you  would  never  have  troubled  to  get 
it  produced.  You  weren't  the  man  to  make  up 
to  the  management,  to  ask  for  favours,  and 
bother  about  all  sorts  of  useful  people.  The 
lock  was  almost  rotten,  it  gave  as  soon  as  I 
touched  it  ...  and  no  one  had  seen  me  come 
in,  and  no  one  saw  me  go  out.  That 'sail.  .  .  . 
And  what  else  could  I  have  done  ?  You  know 
how  poor  I  am,  and  that  I  am  not  specially 
clever.  What  could  I  do  but  take  it  ?  ...  It 
wasn't  stealing  ...  I  never  thought  of  it  till 
I  'd  been  there  quite  a  time  .  .  .  and  I  'd  come 
up  because  you 'd  asked  me  to.  .  .  .  Everything 


248  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

helped  to  make  me  take  it— any  musician  would 
have  taken  it !  ...  It  was  almost  an  invitation 
.  .  .  And  here  am  I  punished  and  you  two 
allowed  to  go  scot  free!  .  .  .  And  now  you 
say  it 's  no  good — you  say  it 's  no  good — and 
I  've  put  money  into  it  ;  and  there 's  my 
name !  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  deserve  something  .  .  . 
but  not  this  !  .  .  .  I  've  been  miserable  all 
these  nine  months.  .  .  .  There  was  that 
letter  I  wrote  you  saying  I  'd  been  up  the 
river  ...  I  thought  that  man  would  upset 
it  ...  a  perfect  hell  it 's  been  !  .  .  .  And  I  've 
still  got  to  pay  the  man  who  altered  your 
libretto  ...  I  believe  he  suspects  .  .  .  And 
now — what 's  that !  " 

Sopwith's  lamentations  had  ceased,  he  had 
started  back,  was  listening  eagerly,  madly,  with 
the  face  of  a  famished  beast  awakening  to  the 
distant  plash  of  water. 

"They're   clapping — they're  clapping!"  he 


The  Victims.  249 


cried.  "You  devil — you  lying  hound!"  Then 
he  made  off,  escaping  by  various  narrow  streets 
to  the  stage-door. 

Harvey  was  alone.  The  muffled  sound  of 
far-away  applause  had  replaced  the  droning  of 
the  distant  orchestra. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

GHOSTS. 

TTARVEY'S  self-possession  had  returned  to 
1  -•-  him.  The  interview  with  Sopwith  was 
succeeded  by  a  calm,  a  passionate  quietude; 
his  nerves  were  steel,  his  thoughts  perfectly 
controlled.  His  will  power  now  gripped  his 
whole  being  as  in  a  vice.  The  tumult,  the 
fever  of  revolt,  which  had  seized  upon  him  in 
the  theatre,  had  given  way  to  this  colder 
passion.  Sopwith's  hysteria  and  incoherence 
had  confronted  him,  a  blurred  reflection  of  his 
own  excess,  a  danger-signal  warning  him  of 
his  own  nearness  to  the  chaotic. 

He   had  left  Lady  Grasmere's  box  with  a 
mind    whirling     methodless     and    destructive 

350  ' 


Ghosts.  251 

through  his  own  career :  for,  with  this  re- 
introduction  to  Isabella,  to  this  work  of  his, 
to  this  epitome  of  all  that  had  been  altruistic 
in  his  life,  the  musician  had  reawakened ;  the 
master-passion  that  had  slumbered  these  nine 
months  had  opened  wide  its  eyes,  had  called 
to  him,  and  he  had  leapt  upright  at  the  sound. 
The  craving  of  the  artist  to  bring  forth,  the 
hunger  to  create,  and  the  irresistible  impulse 
towards  expression,  the  full  lust  of  conquest, 
had  returned — a  tide  broad  as  infinity.  Rushing 
and  foaming  and  tumbling,  it  had  swept  down 
all  the  little  dykes  which  he  had  built.  And  he 
had  breasted  these  waters,  had  struck  out  alone 
from  the  dry  land,  had  turned  his  face  from  all 
his  erstwhile  sheltering  places — such  refuges 
were  pitiful  1  The  half-life  he  had  been  leading, 
the  people  he  had  led  it  with,  were  alike  pitiful 
and  infirm.  Theirs  was  the  true  half- world. 
The  desire  to  be  alone,  alone  with  the  present 


252  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

and  the  future,  alone  as  henceforth  he  must 
always  be,  had  impelled  him  out  of  doors. 
He  had  taken  his  agony  into  the  street,  had 
paced  up  and  down  with  it,  till  Sopwith  had 
met  him  with  another  drama. 

At  first  a  play  of  marionettes,  this  drama  of 
Sopwith's  had  not  impinged  until  from  the 
pigmy  spectacle  had  developed  a  more  pressing, 
immediate,  active  drama  than  Harvey's  own, 
a  tragi-comedy  that  had  turned  his  inward- 
looking  eyes  outward.  Only  caused  him  to 
reverse  his  gaze,  no  single  emotion.  The  com- 
poser's ragings  had  left  him  unmoved,  for  the 
material  success  or  non-success  of  Isabella  had 
no  share  in  his  own  plight,  and  his  fatherhood 
was  intact — a  wilderness  of  Sopwiths  could  not 
deprive  him  of  this  fatherhood,  although  they 
might  steal  his  child.  The  one  effect  of  the 
composer's  moral  dishevelment  was  to  cause 
Harvey  to  turn  his  gaze  outward  ;  and  he  had 


Ghosts.  253 

recognised  the  drunken  helot,  a  chaos  that 
neared  his  own.  The  spectacle  made  him 
gather  in  his  wandering  senses,  revert  to 
sobriety.  By  the  time  that  Sopwith  had 
rushed  off,  reanimated  by  his  audience's 
applause,  Merceron  had  come  to  a  complete 
understanding  with  himself.  He  regained  the 
Countess'  box,  erect  and  self-possessed. 

Lady  Grasmere  was  surrounded  by  a  changing 
group  of  visitors,  the  interval  before  the  last 
act  was  at  its  noon.  She  gave  Harvey  a  smile 
of  welcome  as  he  entered,  and,  for  a  moment, 
his  own  face  softened. 

Only  Lady  Waring  remarked  upon  his 
lengthy  absence,  pouncing  down  upon  him 
with — 

"  Drove  you  away,  did  it ;  come  now,  it 
wasn't  quite  as  bad  as  all  that  ?  " 

"A  matter  of  taste,"  returned  Harvey,  grimly 
calm. 


254          An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmcre. 

The  Marquis  of  Stoke  turned  to  him. 

"Your  friend,  Mr.  Sopwith,  will  have  to  try 
again.  I  don't  say  but  that  he  has  the  root  of 

the  matter  in  him,  but  at  present "  The 

tone  of  the  voice  and  a  gesture  completed  the 
sentence. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  try  again,"  said  Harvey. 

Here  a  Lady  Soames  joined  in  the  discussion. 

"The  second  act  rather  missed  fire,"  she 
shrilly  declared ;  "  but  there 's  the  third — 
the  third  may  pull  it  off,  don't-cher  know," 
and  she  wagged  her  head  mysteriously. 
She  was  the  proprietress  of  a  well-known 
racing  stable,  and  therefore  a  woman  of 
much  experience. 

The  Countess  had  made  no  remark. 

The  discussion  continued. 

"  That  song  in  the  first  act  was  quite  pretty ; 
I  shall  have  to  get  that  song,"  said  Lady 
Waring. 


Ghosts.  255 

"  Wonder  where  he  took  it  from  ?  "  drawled 
a  well-known  critic,  who  formed  one  of  the 
company. 

"Think  he — think  he  inserted  it?"  asked 
Lady  Soames. 

"That  has  been  done  before,"  the  Marquis 
gravely  intoned. 

Lady  Grasmere  was  still  only  a  listener. 

The  Marquis  continued : 

"  I  am  disappointed ;  the  work  is  not  what 
it  should  be — not  what  it  should  be." 

"A  sincere  opinion  is  always  valuable,  ' 
Harvey  slowly  returned ;  "  even  when  it  is 
worthless,"  he  added,  grimly. 

Lady  Horace,  who  had  heard,  shook  a  fore- 
finger at  him. 

"  Wicked,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  very 
wicked  !  " 

Lord  Stoke  was  unconsciously  proceeding 
with  further  deliverances. 


256  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"Who's  the  American  girl  in  the  Bullers* 
box  ?  "  asked  Lady  Soames. 

"  Pretty  girl,  isn't  she  ?  "  said  the  critic ; 
"  I  thought  she  was  French." 

"  Only  the  hair  :  the  face  is  American,  and 
.so 's  the  jewellery,"  diagnosed  one  of  the  men. 

The  conversation  drifted  from  Sopwith's 
opera  into  more  familiar  channels.  Only  the 
Marquis  clung  to  matters  musical. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  to  Harvey;  "I  thought 
the  young  man  might  have  made  a  beginning. 
There's  a  want  of  it — we  English  are  terribly 
backward." 

"  He 's  young,"  answered  Harvey,  with 
twitching  nerves. 

"Yes — yes,"  the  Marquis  dubiously  agreed. 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  new-comer,  a 
lady  whose  evening  had  been  a  distracting 
medley  of  curiosity  and  generous  applause. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Marquis  ?  " 


Ghosts.  257 

She  rattled  on  without  giving  the  old 
gentleman  a  chance  of  venting  an  opinion. 

"We've  all  been  clappin'  as  hard  as  we 
could.  Mr.  Sopwith  's  such  a  nice  young  man, 
and  so  very  interesting ;  he  dined  with  us  the 
night  before  last,  and  we  all  promised  we  'd 
come  and  see  him  through :  you  '11  keep  it 
up  afterwards,  and  make  him  come  on  ;  and 
you,  too,  Mr.  Merceron  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

And  Mrs.  Hopgood-Smyth  smiled  her  sweetest 
on  them  and  Lady  Grasmere,  then  darted  off 
to  another  box.  Besides  applauding  herself, 
she  was  evidently  bent  on  being  the  cause  of 
applause  in  others. 

"  I  'm  going  back  to  Mrs.  Hodgson  and  Sir 
Horace — he's  looking  lonely!"  cried  Lady 
Waring,  laying  down  an  opera-glass.  "Any- 
body supping  at  the  Savoy — you — you  ?  "  She 
looked  round  as  she  spoke.  "No — no?  See 
you  again  then.  Good-night." 


258  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  about  the 
thing?''  asked  someone  of  the  critic. 

"  State  secret,"  he  answered  mysteriously 
"  I  must  go  downstairs  again  and  find  out — 
can't  think  about  music  up  here." 

He  accentuated  the  compliment  with  a 
gallant  inclination  towards  Lady  Grasmere, 
and  then  went  en  to  the  verandah  and  smoked 
a  cigarette,  pondering  over  the  new  American 
beauty,  his  tailor's  bill,  Saturday's  damnation 
of  Francesca,  and  various  other  matters,  till 
the  bell  rang  for  the  final  act. 

In  Lady  Grasmere's  box  the  coming  and 
going  continued.  The  previous  conversations 
were  repeated  with  temperamental  differences. 
Harvey,  rigidly  courteous,  suffered  all  these 
bland  inanities,  could  even  afford  to  smile  over 
them.  For  to-morrow  he  would  be  rid  of  all 
these  people,  he  would  be  at  work  again,  and 
all  these  peacocking  nonentities  with  their 


Ghosts.  259 

strident  voices,  steady  conceit,  and  hundred 
limitations — even  their  very  ignorance  was 
limited,  he  reflected  with  a  certain  grim  mirth- 
fulness — all  these  sawdust  masqueraders  would 
be  but  an  absurd  recollection. 

The  chatter  about  him  ran  on  to  the  end, 
till  the  conductor  reappeared.  And  all  the 
while  Lady  Grasmere  had  said  no  word  to 
him ;  indeed,  he  had  hardly  heard  her  voice. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

ERRORS      AND      COMEDY. 

THE  curtain  had  risen  on  the  final  act  of 
Francesca  of  Rimini,  and  once  more  the 
audience  was  silent;  only  the  orchestra  filled 
the  darkened  house  with  sound.  Harvey  sat 
alone  with  Lady  Grasmere,  half  expecting  that 
she  would  seize  upon  the  opportunity  and 
question  him ;  but  no,  she  was  apparently 
occupied  with  the  scene  before  them,  the 
stage  whereon  Paolo  and  Francesca  were 
energetically  misinterpreting  the  third  act  of 
Isabella. 

Harvey  had  had  some  difficulty  with  this 
last  part  of  his  libretto,  had  been  obliged  to 
diverge  considerably  from  Boccaccio's  story: 

•00 


Errors  and  Comedy.  261 

entirely  omitting  the  incident  of  the  pot  of 
basil,  and,  with  it,  the  lingering  termination  of 
the  original.  Instead,  by  substituting  a  con- 
tinuous and  swifter  action,  he  had  brought  his 
story  to  a  more  conventional,  though  no  less 
tragic,  close.  The  hunting-party  in  the  forest 
was  the  first  episode  of  the  final  act.  The  two 
brothers  entered  and  reiterated  their  intention 
to  slay  the  hapless  Lorenzo,  then  hid  behind 
some  trees.  The  tenor  followed,  his  face  "  flush 
with  love,"  and  giving  utterance  to  his  feelings. 
He  was  interrupted  by  the  brothers,  who  first 
killed  and  then,  buried  him,  amid  orchestral 
wailings.  They  departed,  making  way  for 
Isabella  and  her  nurse.  The  former  explained 
how  she  had  had  a  vision,  wherein  she  had 
seen  her  lover  murdered  and  his  body  hidden 
upon  that  very  spot.  She  recognised  various 
landmarks  common  to  the  two  localities — the 
forest  of  the  vision  and  this  forest.  A  voice 


262  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

broke  in  upon  her  sad  declamation.  She 
listened.  It  was  Lorenzo  answering  her, 
telling  her  of  his  treacherous  murder  and  his 
undying  love.  She  staggered  to  the  "fresh 
thrown  mould,"  responded  in  an  ebbing  death- 
song,  and  expired  upon  her  lover's  grave.  So 
ended  Isabella. 

Sopwith  and  his  librettist  had  had  a  great 
many  difficulties  to  contend  against  in  the 
manipulation  of  this  portion  of  the  score  and 
book.  The  whole  course  of  events  was 
altogether  different,  but  in  spite  of  these  dis- 
couragements, the  pair  had  worked  wonders. 
For  the  forest  they  had  substituted  a  dungeon 
in  the  Castle  of  the  Lord  of  Rimini.  Here 
the  lovers  were  imprisoned.  Francesca  opened 
the  Act  with  Isabella's  recitative,  lamenting  her 
own  and  her  lover's  impending  doom  in  very 
similar  terms  to  Isabella's  account  of  the  vision. 
Paolo  interrupted  this  mournful  declamation 


Errors  and  Comedy.  263 

with  Lorenzo's  answering  tones,  transposed, 
more  robustly  set — for  he  was  not  singing  from 
somewhere  underground.  He,  too,  discoursed 
of  imminent  death,  of  his  undying  affection. 
Then  Lanciotto  and  his  favourite  minion 
entered,  sword  in  hand,  and  delivered  themselves 
in  a  manner  precisely  similar  to  the  bass  and 
baritone  threatenings  of  the  two  brothers  in 
the  legitimate  opening  scene.  Paolo  defied 
them  with  Lorenzo's  flushed  utterance,  which 
was  cut  short  by  a  slaughtering  identical  with  the 
bloodshed  of  the  genuine  version.  Francesca 
was  also  despatched,  and  the  curtain  descended 
amid  the  orchestral  wailings. 

So  terminated  Sopwith's  noisily  heralded 
music-drama,  Francesca  of  Rimini,  a  thing  of 
splendid  opportunities  imperfectly  grasped,  a 
wonderful  story  marred  by  impotent  treatment, 
a  youthful  extravagance,  fruit  of  a  too  eager 
brain,  of  juvenile  impatience — a  work  entered 


264  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

into  rashly,  heedlessly,  an  undertaking  blindly 
pursued,  and  pathetic  with  the  reckless  daring 
of  inexperience. 

Through  the  whole  opera  there  ran  an 
irritating  air  of  largeness,  a  mock-perfection  that 
angered ;  for  the  workmanship  was  carried  out 
with  a  care,  an  acuteness,  a  deftness  of  touch 
and  an  unsparing  devotion  at  once  pitiful  and 
grotesque.  It  seemed  as  though  the  composer, 
lacking  all  intimacy  with  Life,  had  perforce 
vented  all  his  powers  upon  this  framework, 
upon  the  vase  wherein  he  had  bestowed  his 
artificial  flowers.  A  very  emblem  and  a  monu- 
ment was  this  opera.  Soaring  youth  articulate 
had  chiselled  it,  overspread  it,  had  fed  it  with 
its  own  vague  emotions,  undisciplined  now  and 
now  hesitant,  its  own  incertainties ;  had  filled 
it  with  its  own  blind  impulses,  shrinkings,  and 
labours  misapplied — the  errors  that  chasten. 
The  work,  though  ineffectual,  was  brave 


Errors  and  Comedy.  265 

enough  and  clean  with  honest  endeavour. 
There  was,  indeed,  no  cause  for  shame  in  the 
effort ;  its  public  appearance  was  its  one  sin,  it 
had  no  right  to  thrust  itself  thus  brazenly  upon 
a  busy  world.  The  conscientious  and  scholarly 
critic  in  the  stalls  viewed  the  thing  not 
altogether  unfavourably.  Of  that  whole 
audience,  perhaps  he  and  Harvey  alone  knew 
Isabella's  proper  place,  assessed  it  at  its  real 
value.  It  had  taught  its  author  how  to  write. 
Matter,  direct  and  sure  emotion,  the  great 
sanity,  might  come  with  the  years. 

The  curtain  had  fallen  amid  a  stubborn 
silence  that  ended  in  a  sigh  of  relief.  The 
gallery  and  amphitheatre  sought  its  hat,  heavily 
disappointed,  yet  bearing  the  blow  without  a 
murmur;  for  there  were  patriotic  as  well  as 
musical  issues  at  stake. 

Francesca  of  Rimini,  with  all  its  faults,  was 
of  native  growth,  was  deserving  of  sympathy 


266  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

as  the  plucky  though  unsuccessful  attempt  of  a 
British  composer  to  attain  to  a  place  beside 
the  pre-eminent  foreigner.  More  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,  therefore,  did  the  multitude 
prepare  for  departure. 

In  the  boxes  and  stalls,  however,  a  different 
and  a  less  "sentimental  spirit  prevailed.  Here 
the  decorum,  the  self-respect  of  the  upper 
circles  was  replaced  by  a  far-spreading  display 
of  foolishness.  Sopwith's  friends  and  patrons, 
the  Mrs.  Hopgood-Smyths  and  their  compeers, 
beat  their  gloved  hands  together,  and  made 
their  men-folk  join  this  acclamation.  As  before, 
a  wave  of  artificial  and  ill-considered  applause 
was  set  in  motion  by  the  occupants  of  the  more 
expensive  portions  of  the  house.  But  this 
time  the  cheaper  seats  refused  to  swell  the 
hubbub,  remained  cold,  unresponsive,  were  not 
to  be  inveigled  into  the  deception.  Resent- 
ment rather  filled  the  honest  gods  at  this  vain 


Errors  and  Comedy.  267 

argument.  Their  good-nature  had  been  already 
strained  to  its  extreme. 

The  applause  continued,  sustained,  persistent. 
Two  or  three  ominous  hisses,  protestant  from 
the  gallery,  blended  with  the  noise  from  below, 
were  drowned,  however,  by  the  opposition ;  and 
the  clapping  continued,  redoubling  in  vigour  as 
the  curtain  rose  upon  the  performers,  was  aided 
by  a  hundred  voices  as  Sopwith  appeared, 
bland,  clean-shaven,  a  flower  in  his  coat, 
apparently  none  the  worse  for  his  recent 
collapse — the  very  image  of  his  published 
portrait. 

The  vain  applause  reached  its  full  limits  as 
he  bowed  his  thanks,  hand  on  heart — a  pleasing 
embodiment  of  conscious  merit  chastened  by 
modesty.  The  offended  deities  chafed  at  the 
spectacle.  By  now  the  situation  was  fully 
revealed  to  them ;  they  had  recognised  the 
relationship  between  claque  and  composer, 


268  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmerg. 

their  outraged  sentiment  had  found  voice, 
their  resentment  liberal  expression.  The 
Briton,  who  had  spared  the  victim  of  honour- 
able defeat,  showed  less  mercy  to  the  charlatan, 
the  humbug. 

The  welcome  from  the  stalls  and  boxes  was 
now  but  barely  audible  above  a  rising  volume 
of  groans  and  hisses.  The  composer's  friends, 
hopelessly  outnumbered  and  already  at  fullest 
tension,  at  the  extreme  limit  of  their  powers, 
tried  to  prevail,  to  hold  their  own.  But  the 
raging  up  above  increased,  grew  to  a  sibillant 
roar,  a  tempest  that  carried  all  before  it.  They 
were  overpowered ;  their  counterings  swallowed 
up,  drowned  and  lost,  sunk  to  a  mere  undistin- 
guishable  item  of  the  general  outcry,  had 
at  last  gone  to  swell  the  furious  protest  from 
above.  A  new  comer,  entering  at  this  moment, 
would  have  fancied  the  house  unanimous  in  its 
condemnation,  have  suspected  no  warring  of 


Errors  and  Comedy.  269 

divided  interests.  Even  the  bowing  Sopwith 
was  taken  aback,  dumbfounded  by  the  swiftness 
of  this  inversion,  had  failed  to  keep  pace  with 
his  audience's  apparent  change  of  front. 

Prey  to  a  fresh  series  of  violent  transforma- 
tions, his  unhappiness  was  unmistakable.  Once 
more  he  had  been  victimised,  deluded,  trapped; 
once  more  his  child-like  confidence  and  trust 
had  been  rewarded  by  a  rude  betrayal.  A 
sudden  fall  of  the  curtain  hid  him  from  the 
audience,  ended  the  hubbub,  and  he  was  left 
alone  upon  the  boards  to  face  the  furious 
management. 

Thus  ended  the  first  and  last  performance  of 
Sopwith's  initial  effort  towards  the  regenera- 
tion of  the  British  Operatic  Stage ;  in  a  scene 
memorable  alike  to  spectators  and  participants, 
a  scene  that  afforded  the  critics  even  more 
scope  than  the  work  itself,  the  musical  world 
an  even  greater  degree  of  delectation. 


270  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

Harvey,  impassive  as  a  Beethoven,  dis- 
playing even  some  of  that  master's  greatness 
in  the  stoicism  with  which  he  received  impact 
after  impact,  a  succession  of  shocks  that  would 
have  doubly  and  trebly  destro\ed  the  com- 
posure of  a  lesser  man,  had  looked  on  im- 
perturbable, through  the  final  act,  with  its 
succeeding  engagement,  rout,  debacle.  For  his 
thoughts  were  rather  on  the  morrow  than  on 
any  present  spectacle ;  he  was  reserving  his 
powers  for  a  greater  work  than  the  pursuit 
of  an  ignominious  imposition,  was  saving  his 
energies  for  the  larger  combat.  The  failure 
of  Isabella  caused  him  neither  regret  nor 
surprise ;  he  recognised  the  opera  merely  as 
a  probationary  exercise,  a  'prentice-work  pre- 
liminary to  mastership.  As  for  the  unan- 
nounced effects  which  followed,  the  audience's 
contributions,  their  additions  to  the  official 
harmonies,  he  had  taken  these  lightly,  more 


Errors  and  Comedy.  271 

as  an  interested  spectator  than  as  something 
affecting  himself. 

When,  after  the  finale,  the  Hopgood-Smyths 
had  vented  vain  applause,  Harvey  had  smiled 
incredulously  and  helped  the  Countess  into 
her  cloak;  at  Sopwith's  unexpected  reappear- 
ance, curiosity  had  blended  with  his  scepticism. 
The  gallery's  rising  disapproval  made  him 
pause. 

"  Surely  it  wasn't  bad  enough  for  all  this 
fuss — heaven  save  a  man  from  such  friends!" 
he  said  to  Lady  Grasmere  who,  standing 
beside  him,  was  following  the  spectacle. 

She  nodded  acquiescence,  and  then  the  duello 
that  ensued,  with  its  swift  termination  in  one 
general,  undistinguishable  demonstration  of 
disgust,  eclipsed  the  first  interest.  Harvey, 
quick  to  feel  the  workings,  the  several  provoca- 
tions which  had  given  rise  to  this  tumult, 
sympathised  momentarily  with  the  upper 


272  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

circles,  the  outraged  deities  above.  Momen- 
tarily, however ;  for  at  last  the  sublimity  of 
his  own  position  reached  him,  crowned  this 
bevy  of  unrealities  with  the  one  essential,  the 
one  deep-rooted  fact.  He  recognised  in  himself 
the  unseen  dramatist.  It  was  he  who  had  set 
these  players  in  motion.  Without  him,  all  this 
theatre,  with  its  perspiring  audience,  disordered 
composer,  performers  and  management,  had 
been  but  an  empty  shell. 

The  situation  was  one  of  appalling  comedy. 
Insistent  and  farcical  there  occurred  to  him 
the  makings  of  an  additional  scene,  a  culmina- 
tion and  a  climax  worthy  of  the  occasion. 
What  if  he  should  cry  "SILENCE!  "  from  his 
box  and  explain  that  he  was  the  real  culprit,  the 
identical;  that  they  were  wasting  their  energies, 
their  wind  and  muscle  upon  an  innocent  man ; 
that  the  wretch  they  were  hounding  was 
altogether  blameless;  that  they,  he,  Sop  with, 


Errors  and  Comedy.  273 

the  whole  company,  were  the  victims  of  a  chain 
of  unforeseen  circumstances  which  he  himself 
had  set  in  motion  !  And  Harvey  laughed  aloud 
over  his  suppressed  oration.  How  the  popular 
novelist  would  have  revelled  in  it,  with  what 
melodrama  would  he  have  engarlanded  such  a 
speech  delivered  under  such  circumstances ! 
The  falling  of  the  curtain  interrupted  this  train 
of  thought,  the  people  were  leaving  and  Sopwith 
had  disappeared. 

Merceron  and  the  Countess  descended  the 
broad  staircase,  the  crowd  at  their  elbows, 
behind  and  before  them,  filling  the  entrance 
hall  and  passing  homewards  amid  the  flash  of 
carriage  lamps,  the  rattle  of  hoof  and  harness. 
The  air  was  full  of  exclamations,  flying  dis- 
cussions, and  the  immediate. 

Nine  months  ago — years  they  seemed  to 
Harvey  as  he  looked  down  upon  this  com- 
motion— he  and  Hutchinson  had  stood  atten- 
18 


274  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

tive  upon  that  self-same  spot,  had  watched  this 
self-same  crowd.  With  what  other  feelings, 
what  other  attitude,  what  reversals  of  present 
emotion  !  Years  ago  it  seemed  to  Harvey ! 
But  the  Countess'  man  had  caught  his  eye,  had 
come  forward  touching  his  hat.  Now  Lady 
Grasmere  and  he  were  in  the  brougham,  alone 
together,'  and  rolling  towards  Albert  Gate. 

Poor  Harvey !  if  there  had  been  anything  of 
pain,  anything  of  struggle,  if  he  had  at  all 
suffered  that  night,  it  was  now  that  his  real 
trial  and  torment  were  to  begin  1 


CHAPTER    X. 

ERRORS     AND     CORRECTIONS. 

'T^HE  carriage  rolled  steadily  homewards — 
•*•  a  short  enough  journey  ;  yet  to  Harvey, 
with  mind  bent  and  fixed  upon  the  one  im- 
pending certainty,  laden  with  the  one  harrowing 
resolve,  that  drive  was  long  and  heavy  as  some 
final  trundling  towards  a  place  of  execution. 
With  a  heart  leaden-weighted,  impervious  to 
all  save  the  sense  of  this  one  burden,  he  sat 
speechless  beside  the  woman  from  whom  he 
was  now  to  part,  whom  he  must  now  renounce 
— with  the  rest,  wiih  all  the  misplacement  and 
glitter  of  the  last  nine  months. 

Their  silence  ,vas  well-nigh  unbroken.     Only 
touch,  the  almost  impalpable  pressure  of  her 


276  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

wrappings,  of  the  silken  draperies  that  imagi- 
nation warmed  with  the  shape  they  enclosed, 
spoke  to  Harvey — was  but  once  interrupted. 

"You  wrote  that  music?"  she  had  asked; 
and  he  had  assented  with  an  absent  "  Yes." 

At  last  they  reached  the  house.  Automati- 
cally half,  reduced  to  sub-sensations,  he  followed 
her  up  the  stairs  to  the  little  drawing-room 
where  she  had  received  him  that  first  after- 
noon ;  after  his  dreary  vigil  in  the  Park,  his 
happy  questioning  of  Carter- Page. 

Here  a  light  supper  was  laid  out,  upon  a 
table  just  large  enough  to  accommodate  the 
two  of  them. 

"I  am  rather  hungry,"  said  the  Countess, 
handing  over  wraps  and  outer  encumbrances 
to  her  maid.  "You  need  not  sit  up  for  me, 
nor  need  Mason — Mrs.  Hodgson  has  a  key," 
she  added,  dismissing  the  girl. 

"Good-night,  madam." 


Errors  and  Corrections.  277 

"  Good-night." 

Harvey  and  the  Countess  were  alone. 

The  moment  that  Merceron  was  awaiting 
had  at  last  arrived,  when  he  must  tell  her 
the  bitter  truth  and  beg  forgiveness.  Pale, 
very  pale,  yet  set  and  determined,  he  now 
stood  before  her. 

She  was  watching  him,  reading  between  the 
lines  on  his  face;  and,  tender  as  always,  was 
swift  to  put  him  out  of  initial  misery,  to  break 
the  ice-bound  silences  from  which  he  must 
emerge. 

"Harvey,"  she  gently  observed,  "you  have 
said  nothing  to  me  for  hours — and  you  want 
to." 

The  ice  was  broken. 

He  had  seated  himself,  was  leaning  forward, 
elbow  on  knee,  supporting  his  head  with  the 
clenched  hand  that  was  pressed  against  his 
cheek.  Suffering  was  on  the  face  he  exposed, 


278  An  Opera  <§•  Lady  Grasmere. 

yet  resignation  also ;  once  more  he  was  master 
in  his  own  house. 

The  Countess  remained  standing ;  looked 
down  upon  him,  an  arm  resting  above  the 
unlit  fireplace. 

"  I  have  come  back  with  you,  to  ask  your 
forgiveness,"  said  Harvey,  "to  ask  you  to 
forget." 

There  was  no  halting  in  his  voice,  no  hesi- 
tation ;  rather  an  added  clearness,  a  roundness 
of  tone  consistent  with  the  weight  of  what  he 
uttered. 

Her  eyes  bade  him  continue. 

"  To  ask  your  forgiveness,"  he  repeated,  "  to 
ask  you  to  forget.  I  first  met  you  at  a  masked 
ball,  and  I  have  been  masquerading  ever  since." 

Her  eyes  were  still  upon  his  face,  unmoved, 
unsaddened. 

"Not  intentionally,  believe  me,  nor  con- 
sciously," he  continued  ;  "  I,  too,  was  deceived 


Errors  and  Corrections.  279 

by  my  disguise,  believed  in  it  with  you.  I 
thought  that  I  really  was  the  man  you  have 
known.  It  was  a  mistake,  and  I  have  misled 
you  as  well ;  you  whom  I  love,  whom  I  shall 
always  love." 

He  paused,  checking  the  passion  that  the 
thought,  the  actuality,  had  brought  forth ;  then, 
resuming : 

"  I  imagined  that  I  was  able  to  live  the  life 
we  have  been  leading,  that  I  could  belong  to 
your  world.  I  have  made  a  mistake,  have  led 
you  to  share  in  it.  I  have  been  deceiving  you 
all,  myself  as  well — have  been  assuming  the 
man  of  fashion,  the  idler.  I  am  not  as  I  pre- 
tended ;  but  a  common  workman,  an  ordinary 
labourer,  artist  if  you  will ;  neither  fashionable 
nor  leisured." 

Her  eyes  showed  no  wincing,  were  tranquil 
as  before.  She  listened,  changing  no  line  of 
the  face  turned  to  his  own,  without  visible 


280  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

emotion  ;  as  though  she  had  already  heard  his 
words  and  answered  them,  long  ago — long  ago. 

"  Come  back  to  the  beginning  with  me,"  he 
continued,  "and  you  will  understand,  perhaps 
pardon  me  ?  " 

His  voice  was  lower  now,  had  sunk  by  several 
keys,  when  he  resumed  : 

"  I  wrote  to-night's  opera.  This  was  the 
work  I  had  undertaken,  had  willingly  slaved  at, 
had  shut  myself  up  with,  for  those  three  years. 
It  was  but  barely  finished  the  night  I  first  met 
you  and  your  world.  How  bright  and  joyous 
it  all  seemed  to  me,  after  my  years  of  solitude, 
you  can  well  imagine.  I  had  gone  out  that 
night,  my  mind  perfectly  free,  no  haunting 
sense  of  work  waiting  and  unfinished,  the  first 
time  for  many  months.  London  was  new  to 
me,  a  revelation.  We  dined  in  town  and  went 
to  the  Opera  afterwards.  I  had  seen  no  people 
like  those  around  me  for  years.  And  then 


Errors  and  Corrections.  281 

came  the  Stoke  ball.  I  met  you  there  ;  you, 
the  representative,  the  embodiment  of  this 
beautiful  world  which  I  had  just  discovered. 
I  went  home  that  night  forgetful  of  all  else, 
and  bent  on  following,  on  giving  up  the  old 
ambitions — vain,  unsubstantial,  frivolous,  they 
seemed,  beside  the  reality  of  the  existence 
I  had  just  witnessed." 

His  voice  was  lower  now ;  yet  fuller  and 
more  vibrant  than  before,  had  deepened  as  the 
heart  beyond  had  deepened,  opened  wider ; 
as  the  thought  expressed,  the  feelings  exposed, 
were  the  more  and  more  reserved,  secret,  and 
inward.  And  she,  silent,  motionless,  was  still 
looking  down  upon  him  with  gaze  untroubled. 

"  I  went  home  that  night,  ardent,  intoxicated, 
resolved  on  joining  you,"  he  had  continued ; 
"  resolved  on  beginning  my  life  afresh,  on 
making  it  as  yours, — on  devoting  every  gift, 
every  possession,  to  this  new  service.  So  I 


282  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

willed.  For  hours  I  revelled  further,  planning, 
anticipating ;  vaingloriously  measuring  my  zest, 
my  strength  and  aptitude.  And  to  make  this 
new  course  the  more  secure,  to  complete  this 
utter  severance  from  my  former  state,  I  hastened 
to  destroy  my  opera.  Thus  would  the  previous 
years  be  quite  obliterated  and  laid  waste,  all 
they  held,  their  promise  —  return  would  be 
impossible.  I  determined  to  burn  this  work 
of  mine,  but  instead,  discovered  that,  during 
my  absence,  it  had  been  stolen.  My  music 
had  disappeared.  The  incident  almost  amused 
me,  for  the  thief  had  but  saved  me  trouble ; 
my  opera  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
destroyed.  So  I  fancied.  I  was  free,  my  life 
contained  but  that  day ! 

"  The  rest  you  have  seen,  have  shared  in ; 
how  well  I  played  my  part — deceiving  you, 
deceiving  myself, — with  what  double-edged 
success  I  spread  illusion,  you  know.  Then 


Errors  and  Corrections.  283 

came  to-night.  To-night,  when  this  music  1 
thought  to  have  escaped  confronted  me,  ghost- 
like, admonishing,  recalling  my  former  s  elf,  my 
real,  my  only  self;  returned,  awakened  me  to 
the  truth.  Told  me  that  I  was  masquerading, 
that  my  place  was  not  that  of  idle  listener  and 
drone.  That  I  was  made  for  work,  that  I  had 
in  me  a  certain  coarseness,  a  hardness,  a 
brutality,  a  something  different  from  the  people 
amongst  whom  I  was  living ;  a  latent  force, 
concealed,  dormant  all  this  time  or  struggled 
against — till  to-night,  when  it  seemed  to  break 
loose,  to  overpower  me,  claiming  me  for  another 
destiny  than  the  one  I  had  willed.  And  I  must 
follow — must  follow!  " 

His  voice  was  heavy  now,  dull,  with  its  sense 
of  the  inevitable,  and  worn  with  struggle.  He 
continued,  with  an  effort : 

"  I  must  follow.  I  do  not  belong  here  ;  my 
place  is  outside.  I  must  give  up  everything. 


284  An  upera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

The  middle  course  is  to  be  a  Sopwith.  It 
seems  almost  as  though  Providence  had  ar- 
ranged this  theft,  then  flung  my  work  back  at 
me — a  call,  a  call !  " 

Memories  were  these  words  of  what  had 
filled  him  during  his  escape  from  the  crowded 
Opera  House;  his  jaded  mind  could  encompass 
no  more.  Her  first  movement,  a  step  towards 
him  made  audible  by  the  rustle  of  her  gown,  he 
instinctively  met,  as  one  of  protest ;  attempted 
a  reply,  with  feeble  parryings,  lamed  echoes  of 
what  had  gone  before. 

"  This  is  stronger  than  I  am,"  he  repeated ; 
"I  must  go  utterly  away  and  work  .  .  .  and 
you  whom  I  have  cheated  and  betrayed  .  .  • 
will  you  not  try  to  forgive  me,  to  forget  me  ?  .  .  . 
It  seems  almost  as  though  Providence  is  forcing 
me,  has  called  to  me  .  .  .** 

"  Yes,  Harvey,  yes ;  but  you  have  only  heard 
half  1"  she  interposed. 


Errors  and  Corrections.  285 

He  looked  up  into  her  face,  met  her  eyes 
fully  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  entered. 
He  looked  up  into  her  face,  expecting  blows ; 
but,  instead,  she  was  radiant  with  tears  and 
smiles,  a  penetrating  happiness. 

"  Harvey,  my  poor  boy,  I  am  so  glad — so 
glad!" 

She  had  come  over  to  him,  knelt  before  him, 
with  those  strangely  bright  eyes  of  hers  opposite 
to  his  own.  Her  cool  hands  soothed  his  aching 
forehead.  What  did  this  mean  ?  But  she  gave 
him  no  time  to  explain  this  reversal  of  all  fore- 
bodings, to  follow  his  vague  misgivings. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Harvey  !  I  was  waiting  for 
this  ;  I  have  watched  for  this ;  I  knew  it  was 
coming  !  It  is  what  I  have  hoped  for,  longed 
for,  all  the  time, — and  I  am  so  happy  ! " 

The  perplexity  that  crossed  his  face  was 
answered  by : 

"  Do  I  not  love  you,  Harvey  ;  and  does  not 


286  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmerc. 

love  know  and  feel  and  see  everything  ?     Did 
you  think  you  could  hide  anything  from  me? 
Oh,  Harvey,  I  knew  all  you  have  told  me  to- 
night, knew  it  all  long  ago — almost  from  the 
first !     I  knew  that  you  were  not  made  for  this 
kind  of  life — have  I  not  said  as  much  to  you 
time  and  time  again  ?    But  you  were  too  happy 
to  understand  then.     And,  Harvey  dear,  what 
if  you  do  work !     Do  you  think  that  I  could 
love  an  idle  man,  a  man  of  no  ambitions  ?     I 
knew  that  you  were  a  common  labourer,  an 
ordinary   workman — perhaps   that    is    why    I 
loved  you.     Oh,  Harvey,  do  you  think  that  I 
am  content  with  these  husks,  that  I  am  content 
to  dodder  through  life  with  empty  hands?     No, 
dear,  I  too  am  stifling !     And  we  are  going  out 
into  the  free  air  together,  to  work  and  to  share, 
to  help  each  other.     You  will  want  help,  and 
you  will  want  love — as  I,  Harvey,  as  I ! " 
Her   words   came    to   him   warm,   glowing, 


Errors  and  Corrections.  287 

reviving  his  spent  forces  with  their  generous 
heat.  His  hands  stole  over  hers  as  she  con- 
tinued : 

"  We  will  not  part  now,"  she  said,  "  and 
dear,  my  poor  tired  Harvey,  you  have  only 
half  understood  it  all.  Do  you  not  see  what 
the  last  nine  months  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  "what 
they  have  done  for  you,  why  they  were  neces- 
sary ?  Do  you  not  see  that  without  me,  with- 
out these  nine  months,  you  would  still  be  what 
you  were — the  man  who  wrote  to-night's  music, 
the  man  who  failed  ?  Who  failed  because  he 
knew  nothing  of  real  men  and  women,  nothing 
about  himself.  And  now,  dear,  we  know  these 
things.  And  to-morrow,  the  new  man,  the 
man  that  these  nine  months,  that  I  have  made 
of  you — yes,  /,  Harvey,"  she  triumphantly 
repeated, — "  this  new  m  n  goes  back  to  work. 
Different  work  from  that  we  heard  to-night, 
eh,  Harvey  ?  " 


288  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasmere. 

He  drew  her  gently  to  him.  "  You  have 
forgiven  me?  "  he  asked;  then  added,  "  I  was 
inside  it  all,  and  it  is  so  difficult  to  see  things 
clearly  when  one  is  inside." 

He  understood  now,  saw  his  life  as  a  whole 
at  last. 

A  minute  later,  holding  her  in  his  arms,  he 
said: 

"  Darling,  it  seems  almost  as  though  we  had 
been  utter  strangers  until  to-night." 


TO-DAY. 

IV  f  ERCERON'S  first  opera,  The  Sultan  of 
•^'•^  Shagpat,  has,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware, 
made  triumphal  progress  round  the  two  hemi- 
spheres. The  British  composer  has  at  length 
emerged  from  obscurity,  and  the  nations  are 
loud  with  acclamation.  The  unexpected  has 
again  happened.  As  for  Harvey,  he  takes  his 
honours  lightly,  and  ponders  further  conquests. 
Mrs.  Merceron — for  the  yellow  domino  has  put 
aside  her  titles — lately  presented  him  with  a 
daughter.  The  child's  name  is  Isabella. 

Sopwith,  snug  in  his  Bayswater  flat,  has 
bravely  overcome  defeat.  His  songs  are 
conspicuous  in  the  shop-windows.  He  paid 
seventeen  pence  in  the  pound.  As  the  hero  of 
a  late  courageous,  yet  ill-fated  attempt,  he 
289 


290  An  Opera  &  Lady  Grasrnere. 

supports  his  position  with  a  certain  mournful 
dignity  very  edifying  to  the  spectator.  "  The 
race  is  not  always  to  the  strong,"  his  graceful 
comment  upon  the  news  of  Harvey's  first 
success,  charmed  a  large  and  influential  circle, 
besides  implying  a  generous  acceptance  of  the 
situation  created. 

And  of  all  the  diversified,  the  momentous 
events  and  struggles  recently  traversed,  of  this 
whole  dance-of-life  which  he  himself  put  into 
motion,  saving  a  bald  and  unconvincing  outline, 
Hutchinson,  the  instrument,  Hutchinson,  the 
original  instigator  and  responsible  head,  knows 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing ! 


THE    END. 


' 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 'FACILITY 


A    000  062  061     7 


